UNI\'ERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


\ 


The  Life  of 
John    William  Walshe 


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The  Life  of 

John  William  Walshe 

F.S.A. 


EDITED,    WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION,    BY 

MONTGOMERY  CARMICHAEL 

AUTHOR    OF    "IN    TUSCANT,"    £TC 


i  J  J 


NEW   YORK 

E.    P.    DUTTON    (^  CO. 

1902 

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Printed  by 

nALLANTVNK,    HaNSON   &"  Co. 

Edinburgh 


•  •   •  •  • 


>•     •  •  t 
•    ■    •  • 


^ 


TO 

MY   SISTER   FRANCES 

/  DEDICATE 

THIS   STORY  OF  A   HIDDEN   LIFE 


M.  C. 


^1  1  f  ■ 


r^'J_X^-^«-><^ 


INTRODUCTION 

Extract  from  the  will  of  Philip  ^Egidius  Walshe, 
Esquire,  dated  24th  October  1900,  who 
died  on  the   i6th  April   1901. 

"I  bequeath  to  my  friend  Montgomery  Car- 
michael,  Esquire,  all  my  books,  letters,  papers, 
memoranda  and  manuscripts,  and  I  appoint  the 
said  Montgomery  Carmichael  executor  of  this  my 
will  as  to  the  said  books,  letters,  papers,  memoranda 
and  manuscripts  hereinbefore  bequeathed  to  him." 

The  will  of  my  friend  Philip  Walshe  has  put 
me  in  possession  of  a  large  and  extraordinary 
collection  of  valuable  MSS.,  and  has  at  the  same 
time  laid  upon  me  a  task  of  no  little  delicacy 
and  difficulty.  These  MSS.  are  the  voluminous 
works  of  his  father,  the  late  Mr.  John  William 
Walshe,  F.S.A.,  who  died  on  the  2nd  July  1900, 
aged  sixty-three,  at  Assisi,  in  Umbria,  where 
he  had  passed  the  latter  half  of  his  life.  Mr. 
Walshe  was  well  known  to  scholars  as  perhaps 
the  greatest    living  authority   on   matters   Fran- 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

ciscan  :  otherwise  he  had  practically  no  fame. 
The  busy  world,  at  all  events,  knew  him  not. 
Mr.  Walshe  was  possessed  by  the  idea  that  a 
book  should  have  about  it  a  note  of  finality,  but 
so  constant,  so  great,  so  surprising  were  his 
discoveries,  that  a  humble  fear  of  giving  to  the 
world  imperfect  work  seems  to  have  withheld 
him  from  publication.  The  MSS.  which  are 
now  in  my  possession  have  been  added  to 
copiously,  though  happily  without  obscurity  or 
confusion,  for  Mr.  Walshe  was  the  soul  of 
method.  And  so  it  happens  that,  with  the 
exception  of  some  essays  and  reviews,  and 
numerous  contributions  to  "Search  and  Re- 
search,"  Mr.   Walshe  published  nothing. 

The  MSS.  which  have  been  bequeathed  to 
me  consist  of  the  following  volumes,  neatly 
written  on  foolscap  paper  with  a  wide  margin : — 

(i)  Twenty-three  volumes  of  notes,  carefully 
indexed,  on  St.  Francis  and  Franciscan  subjects. 
This  rare  scholar  was  innocent  of  the  arm-chair, 
and  always  read  la  plume  a  la  inain. 

(2)  Eleven  further  volumes  of  notes,  three  on 
Liturgical  matters,  five  on  Heraldry,  one  on 
Logic,  and  two  on  PalcTeography.  Out  of  these 
might    be   compiled   an  excellent  practical   guide 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

to  the  Roman  Liturgy,  a  concise  grammar  of 
Heraldry,  a  full  primer  of  Logic,  and  a  sufficient 
manual  of  Palaeography. 

(3)  A  Life  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  severely 
critical,  and  divided,  after  the  manner  of  Papini, 
into  two  volumes,  the  first  containing  those 
facts  relating  to  the  Saint  of  which  we  have 
certain  knowledge,  and  the  second  containing 
dubious  or  uncertain  matter,  or  positive  facts  of 
which  we  cannot  yet  determine  the  chronology. 
There  is  also  a  third  volume  on  the  "  Sources," 
and  a  fourth  of  "  Pieces  Justificatives,"  the  former 
a  marvel  of  erudition,  the  latter  a  model  of  careful 
and  lucid  editing.  I  anticipate  that  the  last  two 
volumes  will  attract  more  attention  than  the 
"Life"  itself.  Mr.  Walshes  "History  of  St. 
Francis  of  Assisi"  is  the  most  elaborate  of  all 
his  works.  I  have  turned  over  the  MS.  pages 
with  a  reverent  hand,  for  the  loving  care,  the 
tender  solicitude,  the  scrupulous  anxiety,  and  the 
fine  scholarship  of  its  modest  author  are  apparent 
on  every  page.  And  yet  I  fear  the  book  would 
be  but  litde  read  if  published.  It  is  too  elaborate, 
too  monumental,  too  severely  critical,  but  as  a 
source  of  information  to  others  it  is  of  quite 
incalculable  value. 


X  INTRODUCTION 

(4)  A  Life  of  St.  Clare  of  Assisi.  This  is 
indeed  a  most  remarkable  little  book,  not  running, 
upon  a  rough  calculation,  to  more  than  40,000 
words.  In  it  Mr.  Walshe  seems  another  person 
to  quite  a  startling  degree.  No  doubt  the  book 
contains  all  we  may  know  about  Clare  the  Virgin, 
but  the  writer's  critical  method  is  absent.  He 
comes  before  us  here  with  a  simple  work  of  love, 
breathing  all  the  sweet  peace,  the  angelic  purity, 
the  seraphic  ardour  of  the  Cloister  of  St. 
Damian's,  and  moreover,  it  is  written  with  a 
limpid  simplicity  and  purity  of  style  that  belongs 
to  the  subject  itself,  and  recalls  in  its  persuasive 
fervour  that  gentlest  of  hagiographers,  the  Rev. 
Alban  Butler.  But  I  ceased  to  wonder  how  Mr. 
Walshe  could  possibly  have  written  it  after  I  had 
read  his  son's  Memoir  of  him. 

(5)  Six  volumes  of  a  Chronicle  of  the  Order  of 
Friars  Minor,  which  only  reaches  to  the  days  of 
Michael  of  Ccsena,  seventeenth  Minister-General 
of  the  Order  (i3i6-i32<S).  I  think  that  it  is 
important  and  valuable,  but  dare  not  yet,  of  my 
own  knowledge,  assess  cither  the  value  or  im- 
portance. I  shall  certainly  puijlish  it  last  in  order 
of  all  the  works. 

(6)  A    wonderful    "  Bibliographia    Scraphica.  " 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

This  is  arranged  in  a  specially  constructed  box 
containing  twelve  drawers.  The  entries  are 
written  upon  stoutish  cards  4I  by  6  inches — an 
elastic  system  which  admits  of  any  number  of 
additions  while  retaining  perfect  alphabetical 
order.  In  most  cases  one  card  has  sufficed  for 
each  book,  but  no  space  is  spared  to  describe 
fully  all  the  larger  works.  The  twenty-six 
volumes  of  Wadding  and  his  continuators,  for 
instance,  require  twelve  cards,  and  the  five 
volumes  of  De  Gubernatis  seven.  Every  word 
on  a  title-page — even  down  to  the  "  Permissu 
Superiorum  " — is  copied  out,  and  in  the  case  of 
rare  books  there  is  a  note  of  the  libraries  in  which 
Mr.  Walshe  had  seen  them.  In  fact,  the  biblio- 
graphy is  enriched  with  copious  annotations  after 
the  manner  of  Fra  Marcellino  da  Civezza/  but 
there  is  much  matter  not  to  be  found  in  the 
"  Bibliografia  Sanfrancescana,"  in  Gaetano  di 
Giovanni,^  or  in  Chevalier's  "  Repertoire. "^     The 

*  S'^SS^o  ^^  Bibliografia,  Geografica,  Storica,  Etttografica,  San- 
francescana, by  Fr,  Marcellino  da  Civezza,  M.O.  Prato,  1879, 
pp.  xiv.-698. 

2  San  Francesco  d'Assisi,  by  Gaetano  di  Giovanni,  Girgenti, 
1883.  Appendice  Seconda :  Bibliografia  Biografica  Sanfraftcescana, 
pp.  81-121, 

^  Repertoire  des  Sources  Historiques  du  Moyen  Age:  Bio- 
Bibliographic.  Paris,  1 877-1 886.  CotnpUment  Supplement,  1888. 
For  St.  Francis,  see  cols.  765-767,  and  Supplement  cols.  2588-2590. 


zii  INTRODUCTION 

note  "  Bib.  Jo.  Gul.  \V."  in  the  left-hand  corner 
of  a  card  indicates  that  that  particular  book  is  in 
Mr.  John  William  Walshe's  own  library,  and  it 
is  suq^rising  in  how  many  it  occurs.  I  suppose 
he  must  have  had  as  complete  a  Franciscan 
library  as  any   in   the  world. 

(7)  A  Biblio;^raphy  of  Franciscan  Codexes. 
Mr.  Walshe  had  travelled  in  Belgium,  F" ranee, 
Spain  and  PortUL^al  in  special  search  of  Fran- 
ciscan rarities.  Needless  to  say  that  each  codex 
— and  there  are  some  three  hundred  of  them — is 
fully  described  in  the  most  approved  fashion. 

This,  in  rough  outline,  is  the  rich  literary 
legacy  which  I  have  inherited.  Mr.  Walshe  had 
appointed  his  son  Philij)  as  his  literary  executor, 
but  my  [)oor  friend  survived  his  father  less 
than  a  year.  Me  had,  however,  been  busy  on 
the  arrangement  of  the  papers,  and,  better  still, 
had  written  a  Memoir  of  his  father  to  precede  a 
complete  edition  of  his  works.  This  Memoir  has 
also  come  into  my  possession.  After  careful  con- 
sideration, I  have  decided  to  publish  it  separately, 
and  before  any  of  the  other  works,  so  that  the 
world  may  come  to  know  something  of  one  who 
shunned  its  favours  that  he  might  leave  it  a  rich 
heritage  of  precious  knowledge,  and  be  the  better 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

prepared  for  his  works  when  they  shall  appear. 
I  think  I  shall  in  this  way  best  serve  the  father's 
fame  and  the  son's  wishes. 

I  ought  also  to  add  that  Mr.  Walshe  left  two 
volumes  of  "  Recollections,"  ^  and  several  volumes 
of  a  Diary.  My  friend's  instructions  to  me 
in  a  separate  letter  are  not  to  publish  these  for 
twenty  years  after  the  ist  January  1901,  unless 
for  grave  urgent  reasons  I  should  think  it  advis- 
able. The  "Recollections"  consist  mainly  of  a 
minute  history  of  his  childish  and  boyish  years. 
The  Diary  was  begun  in  1861  after  he  had 
settled  in  Italy,  and  is  continued  to  the  time  of 
his  death.  It  contains  much  relating  to  the 
history  of  the  Church  in  Italy  for  a  period  of 
nearly  forty  years ;  but  is  full  of  intimate 
thoughts  upon  religion,  pious  aspirations,  and 
praises  of  the  goodness  of  God  and  the  affability 
of  His  Saints. 

One  word  about  Philip  himself.  He  was 
born    near    Lucca,  where    Mr.   Walshe  then   re- 

^  There  is  a  note  prefixed  to  them  stating  that  he  had  writ  thus 
much  about  his  unworthy  self  to  show  his  two  boys  how  lovingly 
God  will  lead  a  soul  through  many  tribulations  to  a  knowledge  of 
Himself  and  His  truth.  An  entry  in  the  diary  shows  that  they 
were  undertaken,  like  St.  Theresa's  autobiography,  by  command 
of  his  spiritual  director. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

sided,  in  1S62.  He  was  educated  at  Stony- 
hurst  and  Feldkirch,  and  was  destined  for  the 
Church,  for  which,  however,  he  had  no  sort 
of  vocation.  He  remained  but  a  year  in  the 
English  College  at  Rome,  and  at  twenty-four 
years  of  age  returned  home  to  Assisi  while 
they  should  consider  what  profession  he  was  to 
adopt.  He  never  adopted  any,  but  subsided 
quietly  into  helping  his  father.  I  first  met  him 
at  Assisi  ten  years  ago,  and  we  immediately 
became  intimate.  He  used  to  stay  in  England 
witli  me  after  that,  and  when  I  came  to  settle 
in  Italy,  I  was  often  over  at  Assisi  in  prosecu- 
tion of  my  own  studies.  I  need  really  say  no 
more  of  him  at  present.  The  candour  of  his 
soul,  his  intellectual  qualities,  his  staunch  affec- 
tionate nature,  are  all  transparent  in  the  Memoir 
in   spite   of  himself.     And  of  the   Memoir  itself 

I  say  nothing.  How  could  I  speak  with  im- 
partiality of  the   work  of  one   I   loved   so  well  ? 

I I  has  its  obvious  im[)erfections,  its  palpable 
limitations ;  the  writer  often  fails,  perhaps  of 
set  purjiose,  to  give  us  that  which  we  are 
waiting  for  and  most  of  all  wish  to  know. 
Then  the  book  is  unduly  brief.  That  is  partly 
accounted   for  by  the   fact   that   he   has   put   his 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

pen  through  many  an  intimate  page  that  I 
would  fain  have  seen  given  to  the  world. 
Further,  he  who  knew  every  stone  of  Assisi, 
and  had  for  a  lifetime  mingled  familiarly  with 
its  people,  might  have  told  us  so  much  of  the 
Seraphic  city  and  its  inhabitants ;  but  again, 
he  is  concerned  only  with  his  father,  and  not 
with  Assisi  and  the  Assisiati.  Yet  another 
complaint :  he  has  told  us  so  much  of  the 
earlier,  so  little  of  the  later  life  of  Mr.  Walshe. 
That,  I  think,  will  be  quite  intelligible  to 
the  candid  reader.  I  think  that  my  friend  has 
realised,  with  unconscious  art,  that  the  judicious 
and  benevolent,  with  whom  alone  he  is  con- 
cerned, will  easily  be  able  to  fill  up  the  blanks 
which  he  has  left.  Truth  to  tell,  the  Memoir 
is  little  better  than  a  charcoal  sketch,  the  mere 
ground-work  of  an  elaborate  picture  still  await- 
ing colour  and  all  the  benefits  of  the  artist's 
final  conception.  But  when  we  have  stepped 
back  to  the  right  point  of  view — and  surely 
that  is  everything  —  this  outline  sketch  seems 
to  me  to  have  many  of  the  merits  of  a 
completed  picture.  Whether  Philip  Walshe 
would  ultimately  have  given  it  to  the  world  in 
its    present    form,    I    know    not.     Perhaps    not. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

But  he  is  dead,  and  his  brother  is  dead ;  no 
single  member  of  the  family  survives ;  and  I 
am  resolved  to  publish  it  as  I  find  it,  just 
as  it  came  straic^ht  from  a  loyal.  lovinfT,  filial 
heart.  For  in  this  book  I  read  not  the  mere 
story  of  a  life,  but — rather  that  which  may 
rarely  be  found — the  true  inward  history  of  a 
soul,  and  I  hope  that  the  elect,  by  acclaiming 
this  hidden  treasure,  may  declare  that  I  have 
done  riorht  and  not  wronof. 

M.  C. 

Leghorn,  Decembers,  1901. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

Introduction vii 

I.  My  Father's  Father  and  Mother     .         .         i 
II.  My  Father's  Childhood      .        .         .         .10 

III.  My  Father's  Boyhood  .         .         .         .21 

IV.  My  Father  goes  into  Business  ...       43 
V.  My  Father  leaves  Business        •        •        •       59 

VI.  My  Father  falls  in  Love  ....       78 

VII.  My    Father    turns    Student    and    is    ap- 
pointed Librarian 93 

VIII.  My     Father     becomes     acquainted     with 

Heraldry 114 

IX.  My  Father  turns  Catholic        .        .         .126 

X.  My  Father  is  introduced  to  the  Count 

Joseph  de  Maistre  .        .         .        .         '134 

XI.  My  Father  Marries 147 

XII.  I    AM    Born.     Lord   Frederick   Dies.     My 

Father  moves  to  Assisi  .         .         .         -154 

XIII.  My  Father  goes  to  see  the  Pope      .         .167 

XIV.  My   Father    settles    at    Assisi  —  Of    the 

even  Tenor  of  his  Life  there     .         .176 

xvii 


xviii  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  "'■'S 

XV.  My  Father's  Venial  Fault  .         .         -195 

XVI.  My  F.^ther's  Sorrows 210 

XVII.  My    Father's    Studies.      Of    some   of    his 

Theories 229 

XVIII.  My  Father's  Inner  Life     .         .        .         •  -39 

XIX.  My  Father's  Death  and  Burial                  .  252 


FRONTISPIECE 
Mr.  Walshe's  Picture  of  St.  Francis 


THE    LIFE    OF 

JOHN    WILLIAM     WALSHE 

CHAPTER    I 

MY  father's  father  AND  MOTHER 

My  father,  Mr.  John  William  Walshe,  was  born 
at  Hale,  near  Manchester,  the  son  of  John 
Walshe,  a  well-to-do  merchant  in  grey  shirt- 
ings and  such  like  piece-goods,  and  of  Maria 
Bodley,  his  wife.  Of  my  grandfather  I  know 
little  that  is  interesting,  and  scarce  anything 
that  is  pleasant.  Old  John  Walshe  I  picture 
to  have  been  hard  and  resolute,  very  irascible 
when  thwarted,  self-contained  and  self-sufficient, 
keenly  intent  upon  gain,  and  entirely  absorbed 
in  business.  He  was  a  merchant — honest  and 
honourable  in  his  trade,  but,  frankly,  nothing 
more. 

But  he  seems  to  have  had  some  fame  for 
a  good  presence  and  fine  manners,  for  on  the 
Manchester     Exchange     they    nick-named    him 


2      MY   FATHER'S   FATHER   AND   MOTHER 

*'  The  Duke."  and,  because  none  knew  any- 
thing about  him  (for  he  was  most  reserved), 
the  rumour  got  abroad  that  he  was  the  ille- 
gitimate son  of  a  Lancashire  lord.  He  was 
fine  in  his  attire,  too,  and  very  particular  about 
the  boots  which  covered  his  unusually  small 
feet.  I  have  his  picture  in  water-colour,  after 
the  manner  of  Richard  Uio^hton  of  Chelten- 
ham,  a  tall  man  with  good  hard  features,  neat 
hands  and  feet,  and  thin  lips  ;  clad  in  a  black 
frock-coat,  black  stock,  white  breeches  strapped 
under  black  patent  leather  boots,  white  kid 
gloves,  and  a  most  wonderful  high  hat  with 
short  silk  ends  at  the  back  of  it.  He  loved 
heavy  mahogany  furniture  and  heavy  ivory 
ornaments  about  the  house,  and  his  small 
library  was  all  for  show,  chielly  illustrated 
books  bound  in  a  stout  calf  and  securely  locked 
away  behind  glass  doors.  In  one  matter  alone 
was  he  profuse  and  generous — in  the  giving  of 
dinners.  These  dinner-parties  of  his,  if  heavy 
and  stolid  as  to  the  company,  left  a  certain  repu- 
tation behind  them  as  being  unequalled  among 
the  Manchester  merchants  of  the  eiiihteen- 
thirties.  Turtle  d(;niinaU:d  his  idea  of  a  dinner 
— turtle   in   soup    and    turtle    in    steaks — and    no 


MY    GRANDMOTHER  3 

dessert  was  properly  ornamental  in  his  estima- 
tion without  a  pyramidal  dish  of  shaddocks 
and  an  abundance  of  fine  guava  jelly.  He 
traded  largely  with  the  West  Indies  and  with 
the  Republics  of  Central  America,  and  through 
his  business  connections  there,  imported  turtle 
and  shaddocks  and  guava  jelly  for  his  own  use, 
and  tamarinds  for  his  wife's  still-room. 

My  grandmother,  Maria,  whom  I  remember 
well,  was  a  gentle  timorous  woman  (or  rather 
"creature"),  irresolute  in  all  but  house  affairs, 
and  gushingly  sentimental  on  principle.  Yet 
was  she  simple  enough  in  character,  and  she 
had  no  affectations  save  an  occasional  fainting 
fit.  She  had  all  the  correct  accomplishments 
of  young  ladies  in  the  thirties :  could  speak 
French  and  recite  Corneille ;  knew  Italian,  and 
wept  over  "  Le  mie  prigioni;"  embroidered  with 
exquisite  skill  (I  have  her  sampler,  a  monu- 
ment of  devoted  patience)  ;  could  accompany  her 
sweet  small  voice  on  the  harp,  and  sing  Thomas 
Haynes  Baily  without  her  notes ;  and  when 
called  upon  she  could  write  original  sentimental 
verse  in  her  friends'  albums. 

Of  her,  too,  I  have  a  portrait  —  in  oils,  this 
one  —  and    she    certainly    was   a    "most   lovely 


4     MY   FATHER'S   FATHER  AND   MOTHER 

creature "  in  a  conventional  kind  of  way.  She 
is  dressed  all  in  white  muslin  and  gossamer, 
with  a  sky-blue  sash  and  ribbons :  the  trans- 
parent figured  sleeves  of  her  gown  show  a  pair 
of  beautifully  moulded  arms  :  a  noble  sapphire 
set  in  brilliants  holds  the  cfown  about  her 
slender  throat :  a  mass  of  untidy  flaxen  ring- 
lets, done  in  the  fashion  of  the  period,  fall 
around  a  face  that  languishes  in  the  most  ap- 
proved manner  :  the  eyes  are  blue,  the  mouth 
a  rosebud  :  there  is  a  dimple  in  the  chin  :  and 
in  the  delicate  white  hands,  tenderly  pressed 
against  her  bosom,  she  holds  a  turtledove  that 
looks  up  into  her  face  with  eyes  less  soft  than 
her  own.  Altogether,  a  thing  of  gossamer  and 
thin  air  she  seems,  a  phantasy,  a  delicate  elfin 
frairment  of  white  cloud  acrainst  a  still  summer 
sky.  But  this  sentimental  young  lady  was 
also  a  good  practical  housewife,  could  bake  if 
need  be,  w(3uld  make  her  own  preserves  and 
domestic  remedies,  cirried  her  bunch  of  keys, 
and  was  ruler  of  her  pantry  and  mistress  in 
her  still-room.  Was  she  haj)py  with  my  grand- 
father ?  I  d(j  not  know.  She  kept  a  diary  in 
which  there  is  much  sentimentality  and  some 
high-llown     religious    sentiment,     which     never 


MY    GRANDMOTHER'S    PEDIGREE         5 

reaches  the  danger  point  of  practical  inconve- 
nience :  but  complaint  of  my  grandfather,  or 
anybody,  or  anything,  there  is  none.  I  doubt 
if  it  ever  occurred  to  her  that  a  woman,  once 
married,  had  any  right  of  complaint. 

My  grandmother's  pedigree  were  easily  made, 
and  would  go  back  without  embellishments  to 
the  battle  of  Beauje.  She  was  of  the  Bodleys 
of  Bodley  Hall,  in  Salop,  a  county  family  whose 
arms  are  :  vert,  within  a  bordure  gobony  argent 
and  gules,  three  stag-heads  caboshed,  two  and 
one,  of  the  second.  Where  my  grandfather  first 
met  her,  or  how,  I  know  not :  neither  do  I 
know  ought  of  the  courtship,  the  marriage  pre- 
liminaries, or  the  honeymoon.  It  surely  speaks 
wonders  for  my  grandfather's  manners  and 
bearing  that  the  Squire  of  Bodley  Hall  should 
have  allowed  a  daughter  of  his,  in  those  days, 
to  marry  a  non-armigerous  trader  in  Manchester 
stuffs.  For  the  Bodleys  were  not  poor  gentry, 
nor  was  John  Walshe  a  merchant  prince.  There 
is  certainly  something  more  behind  it  all,  but 
there  is  this  also :  that  Maria  Bodley,  although 
he  was  just  forty  at  the  time  of  their  marriage 
and  she  but  a  girl  of  twenty-two,  was  very 
much  in  love  with  the  merchant. 


6      MY   FATHER'S   FATHER  AND   MOTHER 

The  sentimental  young  ladies  of  the  eighteen- 
thirties  are  a  curious  study  to  us  of  the  nine- 
teen-hundreds.  They  seem  to  have  languished 
only  upon  given  occasions,  at  stated  times,  and 
at  justly  chosen  intervals.  The  very  faculty  of 
fainting  upon  events  that  warranted  it  seems 
to  have  been  under  sufficient  control.  Senti- 
mentality was  at  all  times  an  ornamental  luxury 
subservient  to  practical  matters,  and  if  there 
was  great  relish  in  a  faint,  it  was  only  indulged 
in  if  the  house  affairs  admitted  of  it.  The  truth 
is  that  they  were  dominated  by  a  very  salutary 
domestic  conscience,  which  kept  them  out  of 
much  mischief. 

My  sentimental  grandmother  was  certainly 
the  most  practical  and  proud  of  housekeepers, 
ever  busied  about  many  tilings  and  troubled 
about  none.  I  possess  her  wonderful  book  of 
"  Useful  Family  Receipts,"  written  out  in  that 
neat  pointed  sentimental  hand  of  hers,  in  which 
I  have  seen  so  many  extracts  from  Mrs.  Hemans. 
and  L. E.L.,  and  Rc<^inald  Ileber.  'Twas  be<run 
in  1829,  when  she  was  educating  herself,  and 
being  educated,  for  the  marriage  state.  Some 
day,  when  the  long  task  of  publishing  my 
father's  works  is  accomplished,    I    shall    perhaps 


"USEFUL    FAMILY    RECEIPTS"  7 

give  these  receipts  to  the  world :  they  would 
be  valuable  to  the  chronicler  of  domestic  his- 
tory. What  quaint  entries  I  find  in  the  index  : 
"To  make  Allum  Whey,"  ''To  make  Ambrosia 
for  the  Breath,"  "  To  Brew  Ale  or  Beer  in  a  tea- 
kettle," "Parsnip  Wine,"  "Sir  Wiliam  Ouinton's 
receipt  for  Cold  Beef,"  "  To  make  Dutch  Blanc- 
Mange,"  "  Brewing  without  Malt,"  "  To  form 
an  Artificial  Skin  for  people  bed-rid,  suffering 
from  rawness,"  and  so  forth. 

Just  one  or  two  of  the  receipts  in  full  to 
show  you  how  valuable  they  are.  Do  you 
suffer  from  asthma?  Then  take  "  two  pounds 
of  carrots,  slice  them  very  fine  and  boil  them 
in  two  pints  of  water  till  the  liquid  is  reduced 
to  one  pint.  Strain  it  and  drink  the  liquor  at 
meals,  or  at  any  other  times  so  as  to  consume 
the  pint  in  a  day." 

Or  have  you  a  "  toe  where  the  nail  grows 
in "  ?  Then  know  that  the  following  is  a  cer- 
tain, if  rather  heroic,  remedy  :  "  Take  an  equal 
quantity  of  burnt  allum  and  resin,  well  mixed 
and  powdered  very  fine,  and  when  the  place  is 
very  sore  and  moist,  take  a  little  of  the  powder 
and  put  it  into  the  place  with  the  end  of  a  pen- 
knife, or  anything   you   can  get  it  in  with,  and 


8      MV   FATHERS   FATHER   AND   MOTHER 

it   will    never   after  trouble    you."     (It   is   to   be 
hoped  not.) 

A  "pain  in  tlie  stomach"  may  be  removed 
by  "one  tablespoon  of  water  to  one  of  eau-de- 
cologne." 

Here  is  a  dainty  that  may  be  new  to  you  : 
it  is  called  "Tamarind  Fish."  "Fresh  caught 
fish,  being  cleaned,  is  cut  into  small  pieces 
and  well  mixed  with  tamarinds  in  a  conserved 
state.  The  mixture  is  then  put  into  jars,  and 
in  a  short  time  the  acid  of  the  tamarind  pene- 
trates the  fish  completely,  dissolving  the  bones 
and  imparting  to  it  a  delicate  garnet  colour  and 
delicious  flavour.  In  India  they  fry  pieces  of 
this  with  rice  for  breakfast." 

'Tis  a  delicate  subject  to  touch  upon,  but  my 
sentimental  grandmother  does  not  shrink  from  re- 
cording a  "  Cure  for  Corns"  :  "  One  teaspoonful 
of  tar,  one  teaspoonful  of  brown  sugar,  one  tea- 
spoonful  of  saltpetre.  The  whole  to  be  warmed 
together  and  spread  on  kid  leather  the  size  of 
the  corn,  and  in  two  days  they  will  be  drawn." 

And  to  show  you  that  there  was  no  squeam- 
ishness  about  this  young  lady's  languishing 
sentimentality,  I  give  you  the  benefit  of  a 
"Sure  Cure  for  Rheumatism,"  which  she  defines 


A    FORGOTTEN    WORLD  9 

as  the  "  Gipsey's  Prescription  "  :  "  Fill  a  bottle 
with  the  largest  earth-worms  you  can  get ;  cork 
it  tight,  and  put  the  bottle  into  a  hot  dung-pit, 
and  they  will  dissolve  to  oil,  with  which  rub 
the  part  affected." 

How  dim  and  forgotten  is  the  world  which 
all  this  recalls,  yet  how  practical  and  worldly 
a  world  it  was.  These  old  receipts  serve  better 
than  many  long  pages  of  description  to  con- 
jure up  the  singular  surroundings  into  which  a 
scholar  and  a  saint  was  born,  and  from  which 
he  emerged  only  through  great  tribulations  and 
anguish  of  soul. 


CHAPTER    II 

MY     father's     childhood 

My  father  was  born,  as  I  have  said,  at  Hale, 
which  you  must  know  was  very  prettily  situ- 
ated at  about  seven  miles  from  Manchester, 
but  which  may  be  now,  for  aught  I  know,  over- 
studded  with  the  modern  hieh-art  homes  of 
Manchester  managers  and  clerks.  My  grand- 
father lived  in  a  big  square  brick  house  of  two 
storeys  and  many  narrow  windows,  built  in  the 
first  year  of  Queen  Anne.  It  was  a  house  down 
upon  the  street,  with  a  noble  wrought-iron 
railing  sweeping  away  upon  either  side  of  the 
oaken  front  door.  Over  the  door  itself  was 
inserted  in  the  masonry  a  stone  bearing  the 
date  "a.  D.  1702."  Behind  the  house  was  an 
old  square  English  garden,  with  a  jungle  of 
sweet-william  and  fine  wall-fruit  for  the  table, 
and  at  the  back  i)f  this  a<jain  a  sufficient  orchard 
for  my  grandmother's  preserves.  There  was 
nothing   of   the    ccjuntry   gentleman    about   John 


A    PATHETIC    CHILDHOOD  ii 

Walshe.  He  neither  rode  to  hounds  nor  carried 
a  gun,  and  he  was  altogether  averse  to  owning 
land.  He  seems  to  have  bought  the  house 
at  Hale  to  please  Maria  Bodley  in  the  days 
of  his  courtship.  For  himself,  he  would  much 
rather  have  gone  on  living  over  the  counting- 
house  in  Preston  Square.  He  drove  into  his 
business  daily  in  a  modest  cabriolet,  but  it  was 
owing  again  to  the  influence  of  the  beautiful 
Maria  Bodley  that  he  kept  a  fine  heavy  yellow 
coach,  the  envy  and  admiration  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, in  which  he,  with  his  stiff  stock,  high 
hat,  and  tight-fitting  frock-coat,  and  Maria  in 
her  cloud  of  gossamer  and  blue  ribbons,  must 
have  made  a  very  distinguished  pair. 

In  this  environment  my  father  came  into  the 
world,  an  only  child,  five  years  after  his  parents' 
marriage.  Of  his  childhood  I  dare  not  say 
much :  it  was  a  childhood  of  acutest,  pathetic 
suffering.  Of  course,  he  was  destined  to  the 
counting-house  from  the  day  of  his  birth,  and 
for  that  he  must  early  have  shown  a  complete 
unfitness.  Probably  John  Walshe  knew  it  in- 
stinctively ;  at  all  events  he  seems  almost  to 
have  hated  the  boy,  to  have  been  for  ever  re- 
proving  and    chiding   him,  and   to  have  beaten 


12  MY    FATHER'S    CHILDHOOD 

him  ov^er-frequently.  My  grandmother,  who 
loved  the  boy,  and  spoilt  the  boy,  without  in 
the  least  understanding  him,  interfered  tremu- 
lously, and  hence  there  were  domestic  scenes 
and  copious  floods  of  tears,  dramatic  fainting 
fits,  and  a  plentiful  use  of  hartshorn.  Love 
went  out  of  their  married  life,  and  John  Walshe 
set  it  down  to  the  boy,  and  was  more  than 
ever  angered  against  him. 

My  father,  as  a  child,  early  showed  the  fine 
intelligence,  the  vivid  imagination,  the  sensi- 
tiveness and  sensibility  which  afterwards  dis- 
tinguished him.  But  in  these  early  days  he 
displayed  a  vivacity  of  temper,  a  hot,  passionate 
resentment  of  injustice,  which  it  is  difficult  for 
me  to  understand  in  one  who,  as  I  knew  him, 
had  become  subdued  to  a  complete  and  very 
perfect  gentleness.  Nothing  was  done  for  his 
education  until  he  was  about  six  years  of  age, 
when  he  was  put  under  the  care  of  a  gover- 
ness, a  certain  Miss  Ellen  Barlow,  of  whom  he 
ever  spoke  with  respect  and  affection,  and  from 
her  he  learnt  to  read  and  write  with  extra- 
ordinary celerity. 

lie  does  not  seem  to  have  had  any  definite 
religious     education     up    to    this    time.       In     his 


EARLY    READING  13 

"Recollections"  he  records  that  he  used  to  say 
a  brief  prayer,  but  that  he  knew  not  who  taught 
it  him.  He  had  not  even  the  habit  of  reciting 
the  Lord's  Prayer ;  he  does  not  remember  any 
clergyman  teaching  him  religion,  nor  that  his 
parents  ever  spoke  together  of  religion.  Of 
course  they  went  to  church,  and  church  was 
the  boy's  great  delight.  Though  the  service 
was  dull  and  the  sermon  a  mere  droning,  it  all 
appealed  to  his  quick  imagination,  and  the 
beautiful  sonorous  English  of  the  Bible  and  the 
Prayer-Book  made  a  lasting  impression  upon 
him.  Miss  Ellen  Barlow,  by  the  time  he  was 
seven,  introduced  him  to  "  Line  upon  Line " 
and  "  Peep  of  Day,"  and  soon  he  took  to  read- 
ing the  Bible  for  himself,  prophecies  and  all, 
with  the  greatest  avidity  and  relish.  Miss 
Mangnall  and  Mrs.  Markham  he  also  remem- 
bers with  great  gratitude  as  having  fed  his 
mind  and  imagination  in  these  early  days. 

What  a  changed  world  it  all  became,  to  be 
sure,  when  he  was  able  to  read  !  In  the  orchard 
there  was  an  ancient  apple-tree  whose  branches, 
at  the  parting  from  the  trunk,  were  twisted 
into  a  most  convenient  resting-place.  Hither 
he    would    repair    with    "  Line    upon    Line "    or 


14  MY    FATHER'S    CHILDHOOD 

the  "  Peep  of  Day,"  and  shrouded  in  the  leaves 
and  thick  white  blossom,  sob  his  heart  out  over 
the  story  of  Joseph  or  the  bitter  sufferings  of 
our  Saviour.  Here,  too,  when  he  had  had  an 
angry  scene  with  my  grandfather  (for  the  boy 
was  vivacious  and  answered  saucily  enough), 
and  had  been  badly  beaten,  here  he  would  fly 
into  hiding  and  sob  his  heart  out  over  his  own 
bitter  wrongs  and  sufferings.  When  he  was 
about  eight  years  of  age  he  began  to  go  fur- 
tively into  that  room  which  was  by  courtesy 
called  the  "  Library,"  and  to  turn  over  the  calf- 
bound  standard  works.  His  first  discovery  was 
the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  so  fascinated  was 
he  by  that  work  of  imagination,  that  it  was  a 
month  or  more  before  he  searched  for  any  other 
book.  Here,  too,  he  found  "  Gulliver,"  "  Rob- 
inson Crusoe,"  the  "  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier," 
"Don  Quixote,"  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield," 
"  Rasselas,"  some  P'ieldings,  several  Scotts,  and 
many  of  the  poets.  All  these  he  had  read 
(and  how  many  more  ?)  before  he  was  ten  years 
of  age.  But  the  work  which  at  this  time  most 
of  all  coloured  his  imagination  and  opened  up 
to  him  the  paths  of  knowledge  was  three  volumes 
of    "  English     Translations    from     Ancient    and 


STANDARD    WORKS  15 

Modern  Poems  by  Various  Authors  "  (London, 
1810).  Here  he  found  Pope's  *' IHad "  and 
"Odyssey,"  Dryden's  "  Virgil "  and  "Juvenal," 
Philip  Francis's  "  Horace,"  Rowe's  "  Lucan," 
Grainger's  "  Tibullus,"  Garth's  "Ovid,"  Cooke's 
"  Hesiod,"  Hoole's  "  Ariosto  "  and  "  Tasso,"  and 
his  favourite  of  all,  Mickle's  "  Camoens."  Dante 
he  never  knew  until  he  could  read  him  in  the 
original,  and  then  he  read  him  rather  as  a 
devotional  exercise  than  as  literature.  Indeed, 
his  subsequent  studies  and  vast  erudition  led 
him  altogether  away  from  "  standard "  litera- 
ture ;  and  it  was  well  for  him  that,  though  of 
tender  years,  he  received  this  thorough  ground- 
ing. Standard  works  should  be  read  early,  in 
the  'teens,  especially  the  seventeens  and  eight- 
eens.  How  soon  the  possibility  of  standard 
reading  slips  away  from  us !  Either  we  get 
more  modern  as  we  get  older  and  lose  the 
taste  for  robust  work,  or  business  or  pleasure 
or  religion  absorbs  us  wholly  ;  but  certain  it  is 
that  as  time  goes  on  time  leaves  us  no  leisure 
or  inclination  for  the  monumental  literature  of 
the  past.  "  Make  haste  to  be  done  with  your 
reading,"  my  father  would  say,  "  ere  you  are 
caught  up  by  the  fever  of  study."      But  even 


i6  MY    FATHER'S    CHILDHOOD 

about  this  time  I  find  traces  of  those  nice  habits 
of  method  which  later  on  made  him  so  con- 
summate an  antiquary.  I  possess,  written  out 
in  a  child's  round  hand  on  a  number  of  sheets 
of  copy-book  paper,  lists  of  famous  men,  ar- 
ranged according  to  centuries,  with  their  dates 
of  birth  and  death. 

At  eight  years  of  age  he  parted  with  many 
tears  from  prim  Miss  Ellen  Barlow,  his  only 
friend,  and  was  handed  over  to  a  tutor,  of  whose 
name  1  find  no  record.  My  grandfather,  while 
laying  special  stress  upon  "reckoning,"  grudg- 
ingly allowed  the  rudiments  of  Latin,  and  this 
language  soon  became  the  boy's  passion.  He 
early  felt  its  bracing  intellectual  qualities,  and 
his  keen  imagination  seemed  instinctively  to 
realise  how  deeply  it  must  be  radicated  in  the 
world's  history  and  affairs. 

Slowly  the  deep  religious  feeling  which  was 
afterwards  to  dominate  his  whole  life  began  to 
take  rise  in  his  young  soul.  He  had  learned 
to  add  converse  with  God  to  his  prayers. 
Under  the  year  1864  I  fmd  a  most  singular 
circumstance  noted  in  his  diary.  When  he 
was  about  eiirht  vears  of  aire  he  tlu)U5jht  he 
saw   the    Blessed    Virgin    in   the  clouds   looking 


LAW'S    "SERIOUS    CALL"  17 

down  upon  him  in  his  apple-tree  cradle.  But 
as  he  looked  up  towards  her,  she  slowly- 
vanished  with  a  most  sweet  and  motherly 
smile.  Of  his  own  accord  he  began  to  invoke 
her  and  to  pray  to  her.  He  knew  nothing  of 
her  but  what  he  had  read  in  Scripture ;  he 
had  no  knowledge  that  there  were  millions  of 
Christians  who  daily  invoked  her  and  prayed 
to  her.  But  he  must  very  soon  have  ceased 
the  practice,  and  the  circumstance  faded  entirely 
from  his  memory  until,  in  reading  Newman's 
"Apologia"  when  it  appeared  in  1864,  he  was 
reminded  of  it  by  a  distantly  similar  experience 
of  the  great  Tractarian.^ 

It  was  when  he  was  nine  and  a  half  years 
of  age  that  he  discovered  in  the  "  Library " 
Law's  "Serious  Call  to  a  Devout  and  Holy 
Life,"  and  that  remarkable  book  immediately 
worked  a  complete  revolution  in  his  young  soul. 
He  realised  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  a 
Christian  called  to  a  supersensual  life.  His 
manner  to  his  stern  father  changed  :  he  took  his 

1  See  "Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua,"  p.  3,  edit.  1873.  Newman 
recounts  how  many  years  afterwards  he  discovered  a  Catholic 
device  drawn  by  himself  in  a  copy-book  when  he  was  less  than 
ten  years  of  age,  and  that  he  cannot  understand  how  he  came  to 
be  attracted  to  the  object  which  he  drew,  i.e.  a  Rosary. — M.  C. 

B 


i8  MY    FATHER'S    CHILDHOOD 

beatings  patiently,  bit  his  lip  and  tried  to  keep 
back  tears  and  angry  words ;  harder  still,  he 
tried  to  think  well  of  his  chastiser  and  be 
grateful  for  the  chastisement.  I  fear  that  my 
grandfather  was  but  all  the  more  exasperated 
by  such  an  unnatural  demeanour.  The  fervent 
little  mystic  eagerly  adopted  Law's  idea  of 
prayer  at  the  third  hour  and  prayer  at  the 
sixth  hour,  and  of  evening  examination  of  con- 
science and  confession  to  God  of  his  daily 
faults.  Nay,  he  went  by  divination  beyond 
his  master,  practising  definite  little  austerities  of 
his  own  invention,  like  the  denial  of  necessary 
food  and  all  sweets.  It  is  even  recorded  in 
the  "  Recollections,"  with  a  laugh  at  himself, 
how  he  filled  his  shoes  with  peas,  and  used  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  orchard  raising  his  soul 
to  God  in  the  ecstasies  of  prayer.  Blind,  but 
surely  very  pathetic  gropings  of  a  pure  soul, 
instinct  with  self-sacrifice,  seeking  to  find  the 
God  of  Love  and  to  please  Him.  And  re- 
member that  he  was  uttcrlv  alone  in  these 
blind,  anxious  little  strivings.  Mis  Rector  (in 
1846)  would  have  tried  to  talk  the  nonsense 
out  of  him,  his  father  would  have  tried  to  beat 
the     nonsense    out    of    him,    his    mother    would 


MY    FATHER'S    PORTRAIT  19 

have  clasped  him  to  her  in  a  rapture,  shed 
showers  of  pearly  tears,  and  have  told  him  not 
to  be  naughty  and  nonsensical,  but  to  be  a 
good  and  sensible  child  and  not  vex  his  father. 
Even  kind  Miss  Barlow  would  have  exclaimed, 
"  Poor  child !  who  put  such  nonsense  into 
your  head  ? "  And  with  a  kiss  she  would  have 
bidden  him  trust  in  the  all-sufficient  merits  of 
the  Saviour.  But  the  poor  boy  was  not  really 
alone,  for  God  was  with  him,  and  God  blessed 
him  exceedingly,  as  this  Memoir  will  show. 

I  love  to  look  at  the  portrait  of  him  painted 
about  this  time.  A  small  neat  boy,  neatly 
dressed  in  a  short  blue  jacket  with  brass  buttons, 
white  trousers  not  reaching  quite  to  the  ankles, 
black  shoes  with  straps  crossing  the  white  stock- 
ings after  the  manner  of  sandals,  and  a  big  white 
collar  with  a  cambric  border.  The  thick  chest- 
nut hair  is  curled  slightly  forward  on  either  side, 
the  front  lock  falling  at  a  slight  angle  over  the 
forehead,  and  this  arrangement  gives  him  some- 
thing of  the  look  of  a  little  philosopher ;  the 
complexion  very  pale,  the  chin  most  beautifully 
moulded,  the  forehead  high  and  clear,  the  sweet 
hazel  eyes  with  their  long  lashes  big  with  wonder 
and  wistfulness,  sad  but  not  understanding  sad- 


20  MY    FATHER'S    CHILDHOOD 

ness,  looking  up  already,  at  that  tender  age,  but 
not  without  hope,  for  an  answer  to  the  question- 
ings which  a  vivid  imagination  had  set  surging 
in  his  heart.  And  as  I  gaze  upon  this  dear 
picture  I  cease  to  repine  that  he  was  taken  from 
me.  Great  indeed  must  be  his  reward  from  the 
Father  who  is  in  Heaven.^ 

'  The  portrait,  which  has  the  orchard  for  a  background,  is  a  fine 
specimen  of  Sir  William  Boxall's  work.~M.  C 


CHAPTER    III 

MY      father's      boyhood 

This  pathetic  hidden  life  of  the  child-mystic 
continued  about  six  months,  greatly  sustained  and 
strengthened  by  the  discovery  of  Jeremy  Taylor. 
Then  came  a  rude  awakening  from  the  dream. 
My  grandfather  was  home  early  from  business 
upon  some  account  or  another,  and  was  smoking 
a  cigar  in  the  "  Library,"  thinking  out  shipments, 
no  doubt,  when  my  father,  who  had  scrambled 
down  from  the  apple-tree  to  come  in  to  tea, 
entered  the  room  to  restore  the  "  Holy  Living" 
to  its  place.  John  Walshe  stared  at  his  son  in 
mute  amazement,  anger,  and  disdain.  Then 
there  was  a  violent  explosion — violent,  angry 
taunts  from  the  man,  a  reckless  confession  from 
the  boy,  jerked  out  in  bitter  hot  retorts,  and 
alas  !  there  was  a  cruel  beating.  My  father  was 
locked  in  his  room  for  three  days  and  put  upon 
bread  and  water,  changed,  at  least  at  mid- 
day, by  my  grandmother,  to  beef  and  unlimited 


22  MY    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

goodies.  William  Law  and  his  exhortations  to 
patience  and  humility  were  all  forgotten  ;  the 
poor  little  heart  was  torn  with  rage  and  despera- 
tion, consumed  by  the  angry  thirst  of  revenge  ; 
prayer  at  the  third  hour  and  the  sixth  hour  was 
forgotten  ;  God  Himself  and  the  Blessed  Saviour 
were  forgotten.  My  poor  dear  father !  I  would 
gladly  draw  a  thick  veil  over  these  turbulent 
times,  but  that  I  am  writing  to  thy  honour  and 
glory. 

The  bookcases  were  locked  up  securely,  and 
poets  and  divines  were  destined  to  a  long 
slumber.  John  Walshe  resolved  to  pack  his 
son  off  to  school  forthwith,  so  that  there  might 
be  no  more  of  this  "  moping  over  books."  He 
chose  the  Searle  House  Grammar  School  in 
Yorkshire,  a  rough-and-ready  P^dward  VI. 
Foundation,  because  some  friend  upon  the  Ex- 
change had  indicated  it  as  an  admirable  nursini"- 
mother  for  the  counting-house.  ThitlKT  the 
poor  boy  arrived  in  mid-term,  with  a  heart  sore 
bruised  and  a  mind  dazed  and  bewildered.  The 
headmaster  had  been  properly  warned  that  there 
was  much  "  nonsen.se  "  to  be  knocked  out  of  this 
boy,  much  "  licking  into  shape  "  to  be  done.  He 
had  a  zest  in  such  matters,  and  was  very  faithful 


THE    CLASSICAL    MASTER  23 

in  the  execution  of  stern  parental  wishes.  Over 
the  sufferings — nay,  the  horrors — of  those  two 
months  at  school,  I  gladly  draw  a  close  veil.  I 
could  not  convey  them  if  I  would,  and  would 
not  if  I  could.  A  gentler  spirit  has  come  over 
England,  and  a  livelier  knowledge  of  the  past 
has  brought  with  it  a  certain  effort  to  imitate  the 
nobler  virtues  of  ths  past. 

Things  mended  somewhat  in  the  second  term. 
My  father  found  that  there  were  opportunities 
of  learning,  and  if  the  heart  remained  numb, 
the  intellect  quickly  warmed  to  these  oppor- 
tunities. Blessed  unto  all  time  be — but  I  may 
not  mention  the  name  of  the  classical  master. 
He  enjoys  an  honourable  reputation  as  a  scholar  ; 
he  has  written  upon  Greek  roots,  and  his  prose 
translation  of  Catullus  is  greatly  esteemed  for 
its  philological  notes.  He  had  been  a  poor 
sizar  of  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  and  Searle 
House  was  his  first  post.  He  came  there  in 
my  father's  second  term,  and  immediately  had 
him  transferred  from  the  second  to  the  third 
form. 

Things  mended  somewhat  in  this  second 
term,  as  I  have  said.  My  father  came  off  victor 
in  two   fights    and    got    himself  respected.     He 


24  MY    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

found  a  certain  zest  in  athletics,  ran  swiftly, 
fielded  and  caught  nimbly,  and  carried  off  a 
pewter    cup    for    high    jump.       And    under    Mr. 

B 's  tuition  he  progressed   rapidly  in   Latin, 

and  tasted  the  first  sweets  of  Greek.  But  his 
school  companions,  few  of  them  the  sons  of 
gentlefolks,  were,  in  the  main,  young  rascals 
when  they  were  not  young  ruffians.  Cursing 
and  swearing,  blasphemy  and  obscene  talk,  per- 
vaded the  whole  school.  How  the  sensitive 
lad  I  am  writing  about  remained  unpolluted  in 
the  midst  of  it  all  is  a  marvel.  Searle  House 
was  a  fruitful  mother  of  the  vices.  In  my 
father's  first  term  two  boys  were  birched  and 
expelled  the  school  for  common  thieving.  That 
was  a  trifle  to  other  offences  and  other  birch- 
ings.  In  the  annals  of  crime  of  the  last  fifty 
years,  two  of  the  most  notorious  criminals  have 
been  Searle  House  boys. 

Of  relicfious  infiuence  at  this  time  there  seems 
to  have  been  none.  Of  course  there  was  Sun- 
day church,  and  there  were  evening  prayers ; 
but  these  counted  as  nothing.  Searle  Church 
was  a  great  bare  building,  with  high  jx*ws,  and 
a  deep  gallery  running  round  three  sides  oi'  it. 
Below  the  organ  loft  was  a  large  canvas  of  the 


THE    VICAR  25 

royal  arms,  with  the  Hanoverian  shield  in  the 
fourth  quarter.  The  living  was  rich  ;  the  Vicar, 
gentlemanly  and  jovial,  was  the  scion  of  a  noble 
house.  He  was  a  rare  sportsman,  and  my 
father  can  remember  to  have  seen  his  red  coat 
and  hunting  boots  beneath  his  surplice  at  the 
Ash  Wednesday  service.  He  had  a  marvellous 
power  of  rattling  through  the  services ;  his 
sermons,  delivered  at  a  rapid  rate,  were  always 
brief;  and  for  these  reasons,  and  because  he 
had  three  pretty  daughters,  he  was  popular 
with  the  boys.  My  father  had  ceased  to  read 
the  Bible  or  to  care  for  it.  He  would  have 
ceased  to  go  to  church  had  he  not  been  driven. 
The  Christian  religion,  which  he  loved  so  once, 
had  become  to  him,  under  the  baneful  and 
blighting  influence  of  this  grammar  school,  no 
other  thing  than  a  dreary  and  barren  wilder- 
ness. 

After  two  years  of  school  life  came  another 
change.  He  had  gone  into  the  village  with 
leave  one  Sunday  afternoon  upon  I  know  not 
what  account,  and  had  stopped  outside  a  certain 
building  attracted  by  the  curious  groans  and 
cries  which  came  from  within.  'Twas  an  old 
brick  building  with  a  rounded  window  over  the 


26  MY    FEATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

door,  and  it  had  served  the  Friends  as  a  meet- 
ing-house ere  that  sect  died  out  at  Searle  ;  now 
it  bore  above  the  lintel  the  legend,  primitive 
METHODIST  CHAPEL.  My  father  entered,  drawn 
by  some  magnetic  influence.  The  place  was 
full  of  people  of  the  poorest  classes,  kneeling 
with  closed  eyes,  groaning  aloud  and  beating 
their  breasts.  From  the  pulpit  or  platform  a 
young  man  with  pale  face  and  long  hair — he, 
too,  with  eyes  tight  closed — was  wrestling  in 
prayer.  There  was  a  hum  of  excitement  in 
the  place  ;  shouts  and  groans  occasionally  came 
from  the  strange  congregation.  My  father  fell 
upon  his  knees  on  the  matting  in  the  aisle. 
All  of  a  sudden  a  sfreat  wave  of  feelings  de- 
scended  upon  him  ;  he  remembered  W^illiam 
Law,  he  remembered  his  solitary  childish  search- 
ing after  the  hidden  life,  he  remembered  the 
Jesus  with  whom  he  had  communed  in  the 
orchard,  and  he  burst  out  into  loud  uncontrol- 
lable sobbing  and  crying.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's astonished  silence  in  the  meeting-house, 
and  then  his  sobbing  became  contagious  and 
spread  to  all  the  kneeling  congregation.  Loud 
shouts  arose  on  all  sides  :  "  Hallelujah  !  halle- 
lujah !       Praised    be    Jesus!      We    praise    Thee, 


ZION    CHAPEL  27 

O  God!  Hallelujah!  hallelujah!"  A  burly 
miner's  foreman  lifted  the  boy  up  tenderly  in 
his  arms  and  carried  him  to  the  minister  as 
one  who  had  found  salvation.  He  was  prayed 
over  and  wept  over,  and  that  day  Zion  Chapel, 
Searle,  witnessed  such  a  revival  as  it  had  never 
seen  before  and  has  certainly  never  seen  since. 
The  minister  talked  to  him  afterwards,  and  ex- 
horted him  to  be  earnest  in  responding  to  the 
call  of  the  Lord.  Though  he  knew  he  was  of 
the  "  school,"  yet  he  bade  him  shun  the  church 
and  come  to  chapel,  suffering  persecution  and 
contumely  for  righteousness'  sake. 

My  father  went  back  to  the  school  in  an 
ecstasy.  His  companions  seemed  all  dim  and 
blurred  to  him,  creatures  of  some  unreal  world. 
He  had  found  salvation,  the  only  reality ;  his 
eyes  shone  brightly,  his  cheeks  were  flushed, 
his  heart  bubbled  over  with  praise  and  prayer. 
"What's  up  with  you,  young  Walshe  ?"  asked 
Bully  Yardley,  one  of  the  monitors,  collaring 
him  by  the  neck.  But  young  Walshe  was 
nimble  and  fleet  of  foot.  He  twisted  himself 
free  and  ran  like  a  hare,  on,  on,  the  whole 
length  of  the  playground ;  on,  and  then  over 
the   cricket-field    and   up   the   close-lying    sand- 


28  MY    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

hills.  "  All  right,  young  'un  ;  wait  till  I  catch 
you ! "  shouted  Bully  Yardley  after  him.  On 
the  top  of  the  sandhills  he  forced  his  way 
through  a  ring  of  gorse  so  as  to  reach  a  small 
hidden  sand-plot,  and  as  he  felt  the  pain  of  the 
pricking,  it  rose  up  in  his  mind  that  pain  and 
suffering  in  his  body  would  be  acceptable  to 
his  long-lost  Lord,  and  indeed  was  due  to  him 
as  a  penance  for  unpardonable  forgetfulness ; 
and  though  he  had  never  read  the  life  of  a 
saint  nor  knew  what  a  saint  was,  he  imitated 
the  saints  by  instinct  and  rolled  himself  cruelly 
in  the  gorse  bushes.  Finding  the  bushes  were 
not  high  enough  to  hide  him  in  a  kneeling 
posture,  he  scooped  away  the  sand  with  his 
hands  to  a  greater  de[)th.  And  thus  secure  in 
his  prickly  "  laura,"  he  gave  himself  up  to 
prayer  and  praise,  to  examination  of  conscience 
and  bitter  remorse,   for  two  hours  or  more. 

It  was  past  eight  o'clock  on  a  summer's  even- 
ing when  he  got  back  to  the  playground.  One 
or  two  of  the  smaller  boys  looked  at  him  curiously. 
But  Bully  Yardley  darted  down  on  him  and 
seized  him  by  the  wrist.  He  let  go  again  in 
astonishment.  "  Hullo,  young  'un  !  "  he  cried, 
"who's   been   scratching   your   face.-*"      But  the 


BULLY    YARDLEY  29 

young  'un  bit  his  lip  and  held  his  tongue. 
"Speak  up  or  I'll  lick  you!"  Not  a  word 
crossed  the  young  'un's  lips.  Yardley  seized 
him  by  the  wrist,  twisted  his  arm,  and  gave 
him  a  score  of  unpleasant  blows  above  the 
elbow.  Then  he  started  kicking,  meaning  the 
young  'un,  after  the  manner  of  young  'uns,  to 
take  immediate  flight.  But  the  young  'un  did 
not  budge.  "Bunk,  you  little  beast,  bunk!" 
shouted  Yardley,  redoubling  his  kicks.  But  the 
little  beast  stood  his  ground.  "Jesus!  Jesus!" 
he  was  saying  in  his  heart;  "for  Thy  sake, 
dear  Jesus!  for  Thee,  dear  Jesus!"  "Little 
brute ! "  growled  Yardley  when  he  was  at  last 
obliged  to  desist  and  walk  away.  The  little 
brute  was  very  sore,  but  he  crept  to  bed  with 
a  bubbling  heart,  and  fell  asleep  dreaming  of 
Zion  Chapel  and  the  angels. 

My  father  returned  to  his  "  laura  "  on  the  sand- 
hills on  Monday  evening.  A  large  party  of  boys 
were  playing  "I  spy!"  there,  but  no  one  pene- 
trated his  dense  inclosure.  On  the  Tuesday  and 
the  Wednesday  and  the  Thursday  he  returned 
again,  but  he  began  to  be  missed  at  "Chevy,"  in 
which  he  enjoyed  some  fame  on  account  of  his 
nimble  feet.     On  Friday  one  of  the  captains  of 


30  MY    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

Che\y  tried  to  stop  him.  He  made  a  bolt  for  it, 
and  the  captain  raised  a  hue  and  cry.  A  pack  of 
twenty  boys  were  after  him.  'Twas  every  bit 
as  good  as  Chevy.  Crawley  major,  this  year's 
winner  of  the  half-mile,  was  close  upon  him  at 
the  foot  of  the  sandhills.  The  poor  hare,  now 
short  of  breath,  dashed  up  the  steep  incline. 
"  Round  the  other  side  and  cut  him  off,  you 
chaps  ! "  shouted  Crawley.  "  Curse  !  "  he  cried, 
as  he  more  than  once  slipped  in  the  loose  sand 
and  fell.  Once  at  the  top,  the  hare,  by  feints 
and  starts  and  doubling,  was  able  to  dodge  his 
pursuers  and  reach  the  "laura"  unobserved.  He 
heard  the  search-party  confounding  and  damning 
the  "young  brute,"  and  blasting  and  cursing  the 
"little  sneak"  on  all  sides  of  him.  "I  believe 
he's  bolted  out  of  bounds  and  gone  round  by  the 
'cut'  bridge,"  said  a  voice.  "Let's  go  back  to 
the  playground  and  look  for  him,"  said  another. 
"  I'll  knock  him  silly  when  I  catch  him,"  said 
Crawley  major.  The  little  father  of  the  desert 
was  left  in  holy  peace,  and  that  evening  was 
visited  and  consoled  by  an  excess  of  fervour  and 
spiritual  contentment,  so  that  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  his  heart  must  burst  for  love  of  the  good 
God  whom  he  had  so  long  forgotten. 


"OLD    JACKO"  31 

Saturday  there  was  no  chance  of  visiting  the 
sandhills  till  late.  There  was  a  holiday  for  the 
match,  second  eleven  versus  first  eleven  with 
broomsticks,  in  which  he  was  obliged  to  play. 
But  his  body  seemed  to  have  derived  new 
strength  and  elasticity  from  the  soul's  exalta- 
tion ;  he  never  played  better.  He  took  two 
wickets  with  his  tricky  "lobs,"  caught  three  at 
cover  point  (his  usual  place  in  the  field),  and  got 
Bully  Yardley  taken  off  by  the  way  he  knocked 
his  bowling  about.  The  second  eleven  were  in 
high  good-humour  with  him,  but  he  managed  to 
"  sneak  "  off  at  the  end  of  the  match  for  just  one 
half-hour's  preparation  in  the  "  laura "  for  the 
dread  morrow. 

On  Sundays  the  boys  assembled  in  the  big  class- 
room half-an-hour  before  church-time  and  had 
their  names  called  over  before  being  marched  off. 
When  the  Rev.  John  Joule,  M.  A.,  the  headmaster 
(better  known  as  "Old  Jacko,"  from  his  resem- 
blance to  an  ape),  droned  out  the  name  "  Walshe!" 
there  came  no  answer.  "Wa-a-lshe  !  "  he  shouted 
aofain  above  the  din  of  voices  :  "  Wa-a-lshe ! " 
And  still  no  answer.  "Where's  Walshe  ? "  he 
asked  testily.  "Don't  know,  sir!"  shouted  a 
chorus  of  voices.     "  Send  him  to  me  after  church, 


32  MY    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

Yardley."  "Yes,  sir!"  replied  Yardley  readily. 
Yardley  was  much  astonished  not  to  find 
"  Walshe "  in  church,  and  went  down  (for  the 
school  had  seats  in  the  gallery)  to  acquaint  the 
headmaster  in  his  pew. 

The  truant  had  a  blessed  morning  in  Zion 
Chapel.  His  presence  created  a  great  stir.  Re- 
vival fervour  ran  high,  and  the  Rev.  Isaac  Mitton 
waxed  mad  and  eloquent  in  a  fever  heat  of  unc- 
tion. The  boy  was  called  upon  to  pray,  and  he 
prayed,  I  expect,  with  an  elevated  mysticism, 
with  a  glowing  purity  of  sentiment,  that  must 
have  been  new  to  his  lowly  hearers. 

He  came  back  just  before  the  dinner-hour,  his 
eyes  once  more  bright,  his  face  flushed,  his  whole 
soul  braced  for  the  coming  struggle.  Yardley 
was  on  the  look-out  for  him,  and  pounced. 
"  Headmaster  wants  you  in  his  study,  you  young 
sneak.  Come  along  !  "  He  collared  the  "  young 
sneak "  roughly,  though  this  was  quite  unneces- 
sary :  the  lamb  went  to  the  slaughter  with  the 
bliih(;  and  cheerful  heart  of  an  early  Christian 
martyr. 

"  Now,  sir,  where  have  you  been  ? "  asked  the 
headmaster  in  his  harshest  tones.  Old  Jacko 
rarely    caned    on    a    Sunda)-,    but    now    he    was 


''HOLD   OUT!"  33 

ominously  swinging  a  long  cane  in  his  right 
hand. 

My  father  was  about  to  tell  him  simply.  But 
he  looked  up  into  that  ape-like  face  with  its 
bearish  eyes,  and  suddenly  felt  the  hopeless 
impossibility  of  being  understood.  And  simul- 
taneously with  that  thought  he  thought  of  the 
eager,  ugly,  but  not  unkind  face  of  the  Rev. 
Isaac  Mitton,  the  only  man  who  had  ever  put 
an  arm  round  him  and  spoken  words  of  kind- 
ness, and  how  by  telling  he  might  bring  trouble 
upon  him,  and  this  effectually  sealed  his  lips. 

"  Speak  up,  can't  you ! "  thundered  old  Jacko, 
the  wrinkles  of  his  receding  forehead  gathering 
in  a  dangerous  fashion.  Again  there  was  a 
deadly   silence. 

"  Then  hold  out !  "  The  poor  boy  held  out,  six 
times  altogether,  for  six  cuts  given  in  hot  anger. 

"Now,  sir,  where  have  you  been?"  The 
boy  was  breathing  hard,  but  the  sound  of 
breathing  was  the  only  sound  that  came  across 
his  lips. 

"Then  hold  out  again!" 

My  unhappy  father  held  out  again,  twelve 
times  this  time  ;  twelve  times  for  twelve  cuts 
given  in  ever  hotter  anger. 


34  MV    FATHER'S    ROYHOOD 

"  Now,  perhaps,  you'll  say  what  nameless 
wickedness  you've  been  engaged  in  ...  !  Oh, 
you  won't,  won't  you  .  .  .  !"  Old  Jacko 
griped  the  boy  by  the  collar  with  his  long, 
chimpanzee  fingers,  and  belaboured  his  tender 
body  blindly.  My  father  fell  on  his  knees, 
faint  and  dizzy.  "Jesus!  Jesus!  for  Thy  dear 
sake!  for  Thy  sweet  sake,  sweet  Jesus!"  he 
was  saying  to  himself  all  the  time.  The 
name  of  Jesus  gave  him  the  power  of  heroic 
endurance,  and  he  would  have  welcomed  a 
thousand  of  the  cruel  stripes.  The  Rev. 
John  Joule  then  rang  the  bell  and  summoned 
Yardley.  By  the  time  his  favourite  monitor 
came,  he  had  regained  a  seeming  composure. 

"  Yardley,"  he  said  pompously,  "  take  this 
wicked  boy  and  lock  him  up  in  the  Hoole 
Class-room.  Let  him  have  bread  and  water 
for  dinner,  and  bread  and  water  for  supper. 
He  is  to  sleep  in  the  infirmary,  and  to  hold 
no  communication  with  the  other  boys.  To- 
day is  Sunday.  To-morrow  I  shall  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  him.  See  that  Jennings  goes 
up  the  tree  in  the  morning  and  prepares  me 
a   birch." 

"Yes,   sir!"     Yardlcv    would     have    liked    to 


THE    HOOLE    CLASS-ROOM  35 

grin,  but  before  the  headmaster  he  discharged 
his  monitorial   functions  with  ofreat  decorum. 

"Well,  you're  in  for  it,  young  un,"  he  said 
as  soon  as  they  were  outside  the  study  ;  "  what 
the  hell  have  you  been  up  to ! " 

The  "young  'un "  made  no  answer,  and 
received  a  cuff  or  two  and  a  kick  or  two 
on  the  way  to  the  Hoole  Class-room.  But 
once  there,  he  knelt  down  in  the  middle  of 
the  bare  floor,  and  extending  his  arms  and 
raising  his  eyes  to  heaven  he  cried  aloud, 
"O  Jesus!  Jesus!  for  Thee,  O  most  dear 
Jesus !  For  Thy  sweet  sake,  sweet  Jesus  ! " 
and  other  the  like  ejaculations  of  fervent  love  for 
his  new-found  Master.  And  thus  he  continued 
until  the  night-time  when  they  came  to  fetch 
him  away  to  the  infirmary.  The  bare  room 
and  its  solitude  had  become  as  sweet  to  him 
as  the  "laura"  on  the  sandhills,  and  he  forgot 
the  bruises  of  his  body  in  the  spiritual  raptures 
of  his  soul.     My  poor  dear  father  ! 

*  •  •  •  • 

He  maintained  the  same  dooraed  silence  on 
Monday  morning,  and  was  held  down  and 
birched  until  the  red  blood  flowed.  All  in 
vain  ;    not  a  word   could   he  be   made   to  utter. 


36  MY    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

Little  did  they  suspect  the  tahsman  in  his 
heart  that  gave  him  this  strange  power  of 
endurance.  The  imprisonment  was  still  main- 
tained, but  he  rejoiced  in  the  solitude.  There 
was  an  old  tattered  Bible  in  the  window-sill, 
and  with  the  instinct  of  the  Saints  he  at 
once  began  to  feed  upon  the  Psalms.  He 
remembered  William  Law's  recommendation  to 
sanctify  the  tiiird  hour  and  the  sixth  hour  by 
prayer,  and  he  read  half  the   Psalter  at  each. 

On  the  Tuesday  morning  he  was  recon- 
ducted from  the  infirmary  to  the  Hoole  Class- 
room, and  was  destined  to  receive  a  worse 
assault  than  any  which  he  had  yet  sustained. 
Did  Jacko  came  into  his  prison-house  without 
cane  or  birch,  and  announced  that  he  was 
about  to  write  and  request  Mr.  Walshe  to 
come  and  fetch  his  son,  for  he  was  expelled 
the  school.  Then  \'nr  the  first  time  did 
tlie  poor  martyr  quail,  and  Heaven,  that  dear 
Heaven  which  had  so  sweetly  filled  the  Hoole 
Class-room  with  its  divine  odours,  seemed 
suddenly  to  close  and  deny  its  succour,  lie 
feared  this  incomprehtMisiblc  and  uncomprehend- 
ing father  nn^re  than  strij)es  above  measure 
and   imprisonments   and    tumults,   and    when    old 


THE    TRUTH    LEAKS    OUT  37 

Jacko  had  gone  he  lay  down  upon  the  bare 
floor  as  he  had  once  lain  in  the  apple-tree 
cradle,  and  sobbed  his  heart  out,  until  the 
heavens  once  more  opened  and  a  ministering 
angel  brought  consolation  and  fortitude  for 
the  coming  struggle. 

But  in  the  afternoon  old  Jacko  learned  the 
truth.  Miss  Wright,  who  kept  the  inferior  tuck- 
shop,  had  lately  joined  the  "  Methodies,"  and  on 
Monday  afternoon  she  recounted  unto  certain 
small  boys  how  she  had  seen  Master  Walshe  in 
the  Chapel  on  Sunday,  and  what  strange  doings 
there  had  been.  The  news  reached  up  to 
Yardley  by  Tuesday,  and  old  Jacko  was  at 
once  informed.  Oh,  what  a  hullabaloo  and  a 
to-do  there  was  in  the  village,  to  be  sure !  The 
headmaster  sent  for  the  Hon.  and  Rev.  Vicar, 
who  could  do  nothing  but  rave  that  first  day. 
Crawley  major  and  a  party  of  boys  broke  bounds 
and  stoned  the  circular  window  of  Zion  Chapel. 
The  two  village  constables  turned  out  and  con- 
signed to  the  lock-up  a  burly  Methody  who  was 
doing  rough  execution  among  the  boys.  The 
Hon.  and  Rev.  Vicar  came  and  interviewed  the 
"young  scamp,"  and  tried  to  rub  into  him  a 
sense   of    his    "incorrigible   wickedness."      The 


38  MY    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

"young  scamp"  remained  imperturbably  tran- 
quil under  the  hail  of  questions  and  reproaches : 
he  thouirht  of  the  silence  of  the  Saviour  under 
persecution,  and  never  opened  his  lips  ;  but  when 
alone  in  his  prison-house  he  rejoiced  aloud  in  the 
Lord,  and  sang  to  himself  in  his  sweet  boy's 
treble,  "Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul,  let  me  to  Thy 
bosom  tly." 

Old   Jacko's    threat   was    no  idle   one.      John 
Walshe  arrived  on  the  Thursday.     He  carried  a 
slender  bamboo  cane,   and  used  it   freely  in  the 
Hoole  Class-room  before  uttering  a  word.     Then 
he  spoke  in  his  cold,   hard,   fierce   way,  and   his 
words  were  more  powerful  than  his  blows.     The 
upshot  of  it  all  was  that  my  father  did   not  leave 
the    Searle    House   Grammar    School.      "Salva- 
tion "   was  caned,   birched,    bullied,    twisted,  and 
starved    out    of   his    soul.      The    great    wave    of 
feeling   left  him  almost  as  suddenly  as  it  came. 
But    it  did  not  leave    him    the    same   boy.      He 
grew  sullen  and  morose,  and  even  fierce.     Two 
boys    who    had    called    him    "young    Methody " 
were     badly    mauled,     and     tlic     nickname     died 
before    it   was  born.       For    his    soul's    peace    he 
even  tried  to  fight   lUilly  Yardley,  and  though  he 
got   the   worst   of  il,    ihc   bully   did    nut   like  the 


HOLIDAY    READING  39 

experience,  and  left  him  alone  ever  afterwards. 
Old  Jacko  treated  him  with  a  certain  rough 
respect,  and  gave  him  a  good  report  at  the  end 
of  the  term.  In  a  private  letter  he  assured  John 
Walshe  that  the  "  nonsense "  had  been  quite 
knocked  out  of  his  son,  and  laid  all  the  blame  on 
the  shoulders  of  the  pernicious  and  meddlesome 
Mr.  Isaac  Mitton.  The  Methodist  episode  was 
soon  dropped  and  forgotten  in  the  school. 

During  the  holidays  my  father  found  the 
bookcases  unlocked,  and  resumed  somewhat  the 
thread  of  his  general  reading  in  the  apple-tree. 
He  also  went  over  again  and  again  all  that  he 
had  done  in  Greek  and  Latin  during  the  past 
term,  and  learned  by  heart  the  whole  of  the 
"Ars  Poetica."     I    should    have   said    that    Mr. 

B remained  his  friend,  if  never  his  defender. 

He  was  an  enthusiast,  and  there  being  no  one 
who  cared  an  atom  for  his  enthusiasms  except 
this  small  boy,  my  father  derived  an  immense 
benefit  from  his  conversation,  and  likewise  re- 
ceived a  considerable  amount  of  indirect  private 
tuition. 

But  I  must  not  dwell  too  long  on  his  boy- 
hood. Is  it  not  all  written  in  his  "  Recollec- 
tions,"   which    I    shall    assuredly    publish    if  his 


40  MV    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

works  are  appreciated  as  they  deserve  to  be  ? 
To  be  briefer,  then.  My  father  remained  at 
Searle  House  until  he  was  fifteen  years  and  two 
months  old,  when  he  was  considered  ripe  for  the 
counting-house.  Cruellest  of  all  John  Walshe's 
blows,  he  forbade  Greek  and  Latin  in  the  last 
term,  so  that  the  boy  miorht  be  thoroughly 
grounded  in  arithmetic,  in  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  was  (and  remained)  deplorably  defi- 
cient. Old  Jacko  did  not  like  this  interference, 
but  then   Mr.   Walshe  was  influential   and   could 

recommend    boys.      Mr.     B did     much     to 

neutralise  the  Draconian  measure,  and  became 
quite  expansive  and  encouraging.  Nay,  at  the 
end  of  that  last  term  (may  his  name  live  for 
ever!)  he  even  wrote  John  Walshe  a  noble  letter, 
telling  him  that  his  son  was  an  exceptionally 
brilliant  classic  ;  that  he  was  destined  to  be  a 
great  scholar ;  that  he  should  be  sent  to  the 
University,  where  he  was  sure  to  have  a  brilliant 
career.  1  lie  well-intentioned  letter  served  no 
other  purpose  than  t<>  j)ui  my  grandfather  into 
a  towering  passion,  and  secure  for  my  father  a 
more  than  usually  cold  reception. 

My  father  left  school  exceptionally  far  ahead  in 
Greek  and  Latin  for  his  age,  with  such  history  and 


"CATHOLICS"  41 

geography  as  was  taught  in  a  grammar  school  in 
those  days,  with  algebra  down  to  simple  equations, 
the  first  book  of  Euclid,  and  a  remarkably  slen- 
der stock  of  arithmetic.  There  was  a  "  Froggie  " 
at  the  school,  a  poor  bewildered  shrinking 
Alsatian,  Monsieur  or  Herr  Ebermann,  accord- 
ing as  he  taught  French  or  German,  and  from 
him  my  father  acquired  a  working  knowledge 
of  French,  which,  however,  became  consider- 
ably obscured  until  the  days  when  he  really 
settled  down  to  study. 

I  ought  perhaps  to  mention  here,  in  view  of 
what  happened  hereafter,  that  it  was  at  Searle 
House  that  he  first  became  aware  that  there 
were  such  people  as  "  Catholics."  The  Molli- 
neux  and  the  Binghams,  who  were  the  leading 
gentry  of  the  neighbourhood,  came  of  a  toughly 
"  Recusant "  stock  that  had  never  changed  the 
Faith.  There  was  a  small  Catholic  chapel  and 
day-school  in  the  village,  and  there  were  occa- 
sional collisions  between  the  Catholic  boys  and 
the  grammar-school  boys.  But,  of  course,  he 
had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  a  Catholic  was. 
If  he  thought  about  them  at  all,  it  was  as  gloomy 
and  wicked:  gloomy,  because  Mollineux  Hall 
was  a  sombre   Palladian   building,    with  a  very 


43  MY    FATHER'S    BOYHOOD 

long,  straight,  damp,  ill-kept  drive  leading  up 
to  it,  with  an  abundance  of  molehills  on  either 
side ;  wicked,  because  they  burnt  Ridley  and 
Latimer,  and  tried  to  blow  up  the  King  and 
Parliament. 


CHAPTER    IV 

MY    FATHER    GOES    INTO    BUSINESS 

At  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  Monday, 
the  30th  August  1852,  on  a  sultry,  threatening 
day,  my  father,  with  a  nameless  terror  in  his 
heart,  took  his  place  in  the  cabriolet  beside  my 
stern  grandfather,  and  was  driven  off  to  the 
counting-house.  It  was  a  great  day  for  John 
Walshe,  begetter  of  a  substantial  business  and 
of  a  son  to  succeed  to  it,  and  there  was  even 
some  geniality  in  his  sermons  and  admonitions 
as  they  drove  into  the  black  town.  By  way 
of  encouragement,  the  boy  was  to  have  a  salary 
of  ^15  a  year,  instead  of  the  unpaid  apprentice- 
ship of  three  years,  which  would  have  been 
more  regular.  John  Walshe  was  no  manufac- 
turer or  warehouseman,  but  a  merchant  who 
bought  from  both.  He  had  his  customers  in 
China  and  the  West  Indies,  and  even  bought 
for  London  shippers  at  one  and  a  half  per  cent. 

The  counting-house  stood  on  the  ground    floor 

43 


44     MY    FATHER   GOES    INTO    BUSINESS 

of  a  smoke-blackened  brick  building  in  Preston 
Square.  It  consisted  of  but  four  rooms.  There 
was  the  clerks'  ofifice,  with  a  square  desk  and 
four  high  stools,  enclosed  from  the  public  by  a 
counter  ;  there  was  Mr.  Briggs'  room  (he  was 
chief  clerk  and  cashier) ;  a  sample  room,  and 
Mr.  Walshe's  room,  shut  off  by  a  green  baize 
door  with  a  round  window,  through  which  he 
could  frown  upon  his  clerks.  The  clerks  were 
three  in  number  besides  Mr.  Briggs,  and  my 
father  upon  the  vacant  stool  made  a  fourth.  Of 
his  companions,  the  eldest  was  one  Christopher 
Meade,  a  good  hand  at  business  and  a  great 
favourite  with  Mr.  Walshe,  but  of  an  "'umble," 
sneaking,  spiteful,  and  ambitious  character,  who 
was  bidinor  his  time  to  oust  Mr.  BriiJCfs.  The 
other  two,  Walter  Wills  and  Richard  Good- 
rich, were  bright,  pleasant  enough,  good-natured 
fellows  of  twenty-one  and  eighteen,  with  no  par- 
ticular head,  and,  as  regards  Goodrich,  scarce 
an  ounce  of  ballast.  For  Goodrich,  who  was 
fond  of  dress,  and  dressed  in  very  bad  taste, 
and  who  had  a  sense  of  humour  of  his  own 
and  a  real  kind  hc.iri,  my  father  speedily  de- 
veloped a  great  affection.  Mr.  Briggs  and  Mr. 
Meade  had   been   to  dinner  at    Hale  ;  the  other 


THE    SAMPLE-BOOKS  45 

two  my  father  had  never  set  eyes  upon  before. 
"Mr.  Goodrich ! "  said  my  grandfather.  Mr. 
Goodrich  started.  There  was  that  in  my  grand- 
father's voice  which  made  people  start  upon  the 
most  insignificant  occasions.  "For  the  future 
you  will  hand  over  the  sample-books  to  my  son, 
show  him  how  to  keep  them,  and  see  that  they 
are  properly  kept." 

"  Yessir! " 

The  sample-books  were  a  very  ingenious  form 
of  torture.  They  were  kept  on  this  wise,  as  I 
understand  it.  A  square  inch  of  the  drill,  twill, 
shirting,  or  whatever  it  might  be,  was  cut  out  of 
the  original  sample  and  pasted  in  a  book.  The 
samples  of  every  shipment  were  kept  together, 
and  numbered  with  numbers  corresponding  to 
numbers  in  an  invoice  or  daybook.  At  the  head 
of  the  collection  was  written  the  name  of  the  ship 
by  which  the  goods  were  sent,  the  name  of  the 
buyers  and  the  date  of  shipment.  A  sufficiently 
dreary  occupation,  and  what  is  more,  no  one 
could  remember  that  the  sample-books  had  ever 
once  been  wanted  or  used. 

The  arrival  of  the  "Governor's"  son  in  the 
office  put  out  the  other  clerks  a  good  deal.  They 
had  only  been  informed  of  his  intended  advent 


46      MY    FEATHER    GOES    INTO    BUSINESS 

the  Saturday  before,  and  had  been  deHberating 
whether  they  ought  to  call  such  a  boy  "  Mr." 
Besides,  they  felt  he  would  be  a  restraint,  for 
when  Meade  was  out.  Wills  and  Goodrich  passed 
most  of  their  time  in  abusing  "the  Duke"  or 
"Old  Poker,"  as  they  also  called  him.  But 
Goodrich  decided  at  once  that  he  liked  the  look 
of  the  youngster,  and  when  the  Duke  was  out  at 
lunch  and  Meade  on  the  Exchange,  he  gave  him 
an  exhibition  of  vaultincr  over  the  counter,  the 
which  he  did  with  so  comic  and  anxious  a  face, 
that  the  timid  new  clerk  was  constrained  to  laugh 
heartily. 

It  was  a  sultry,  dark  day,  that  first  day  in  the 
counting-house,  and  the  gas  had  to  be  lit.  My 
father,  who  had  been  awake  half  the  night  think- 
ing in  agony  of  the  dreaded  morrow,  fell  sound 
asleep  on  his  sample-book.  Meade  did  not  like 
to  reprove  the  "Governor's"  son  on  the  first 
day  ;  Wills  and  Goodrich  merely  said  "  Poor 
little  devil,"  and  let  him  sleep.  Mr.  Walshe 
had  been  coming  t<»  his  round  window  very  often 
that  day  to  rt-vel  in  the  sight  of  his  son  upon  a 
counting-house  stool.  As  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
he  looked  out  during  this  peaceful  sleep.  He 
opened  the  door  and  called  sternly,   "William!" 


A    CATASTROPHE  47 

William,  disturbed  perhaps  in  his  sleep  by  the 
sound  of  that  dreaded  voice,  answered  with  his 
first  snore.  Goodrich  looked  out  of  the  window 
to  hide  a  grin.  "  Come,  sir !  William  !  "  William 
awoke  with  a  bad  start.  His  right  eyebrow  had 
stuck  tight  on  to  a  wet  sample  in  the  sample- 
book,  and  in  starting  up  the  page  was  torn  vio- 
lently out  of  the  book  and  remained  clinging  to 
his  head.  In  the  surprise  and  fright  and  be- 
wilderment he  lost  his  balance,  and  the  high 
stool  toppled  backwards,  bringing  his  head  with 
a  crash  against  the  wall.  John  Walshe  stalked 
frowning  back  into  his  room.  My  father  was 
completely  stunned,  and  there  was  an  ugly  cut 
in  the  back  of  his  head.  Wills  picked  him  up 
and  supported  him  on  his  knee.  Goodrich 
fetched  water,  bathed  his  face,  and  wiped  the 
wound  with  many  kindly  muttered  "  Poor  little 
devils,"  but  he  did  not  recover.  Then  he  and 
Wills  fell  to  disputing  which  should  have  the 
unpleasant  duty  of  going  in  and  telling  "  Old 
Poker."  Finally,  Goodrich  vaulted  the  counter 
with  a  grimace,  and  boldly  walked  into  the 
*'  Governor's"  sanctum.  "  Mr.  Walshe  is  stunned, 
sir,"  he  said.  "We  can't  bring  him  to.  Shall 
I  go  and  fetch  a  surgeon?"    John  Walshe  glared 


48      MY    FATHER   GOES    INTO    BUSINESS 

at  him  in  a  white  heat  of  anger  and  acute  irrita- 
tion. He  could  get  no  word  across  his  tightly 
drawn  lips.  "Very  well,  sir,"  cried  Goodrich  in 
alarm,  affecting  to  have  had  an  answer,  and 
darting  out  of  the  room. 

The  doctor  pronounced  the  boy  to  have  had 
a  bad  concussion,  and  carefully  dressed  the 
wound.  Goodrich  then  took  the  doctor  into 
Mr.  Walshe's  room.  Mr.  Walshe  was  lying  back 
in  his  chair  livid,  doing  nothing  for  the  first  time 
in  his  business  life.  "The  boy's  very  bad,  sir," 
said  the  doctor  ;  "  he  must  go  home  and  to  bed 
at  once."  It  was  about  four  in  the  afternoon. 
"Shall  I  fetch  a  hackney-coach,  sir?  Shall  I 
take  him  home,  sir?  "  asked  Goodrich  in  a  breath, 
and  getting  no  answer  but  a  stare,  he  ran  out  of 
the  room  with  anoth(,T  "Very  well,  sir!" 

Goodrich  lifted  his  burden  tenderly  into  the 
coach  and  rested  the  restless  rolling  head  gently 
on  his  arm.  He  was  a  soft-hearted  fellow,  was 
poor  Goodrich.  (Alas!  life  in  the  counting-house 
of  J(jhn  Walshe  and  a  tuo  wild  life  outside  it 
drove  him  into  enlisting,  and  he  was  shot  through 
the  head  at  Inkerman.  May  his  soul,  and  the 
souls  of  all  the  faithful  few  who  were  kind  to  my 
father,  rest  in  peace.    Amen.)     l  he  boy  had  come 


THE    ENDING    TO    THE    FIRST    DAY     49 

to  a  bit  and  was  muttering  half  deliriously.  His 
mind  had  wandered  back  to  the  Searle  play- 
ground and  the  Hoole  Class-room.  "Jesus! 
Jesus!"  he  was  saying,  "Jesus!  for  Thy  dear 
sake,  sweet  Jesus  !  "  "  Hello  ! "  exclaimed  Good- 
rich, "  pious  little  beggar,  poor  little  devil !  Who'd 
have  thought  it  in  old  Poker's  offspring ! " 

Arrived  at  the  house,  Goodrich  set  the  bio- 
bell  booming  and  carried  his  charge  into  the 
hall.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  set  foot 
across  the  Governor's  sacred  portals.  My  gos- 
samer grandmother  came  out  of  the  morning- 
room,  held  up  her  hands,  screamed  "  Oh,  la ! " 
and  fell  into  a  real  faint.  While  the  panic- 
stricken  maids  ran  for  the  hartshorn,  Goodrich, 
carrying  the  boy,  made  the  cook  show  him  the 
way  to  the  bedroom,  and  told  her  to  send  for 
a  doctor.  He  undressed  his  burden  with  all 
the  solicitude  of  a  nurse  and  put  him  to  bed  ; 
nor  would  he  have  left  the  bedside,  but  that  he 
did  not  relish  the  idea  of  meeting  the  Governor 
in  his  own  house.  And  so  ended  John  William 
Walshe's  first  day  in  that  counting-house  for 
which  he  was  so  little  fitted. 

After  that  blow  on  the  head  the  dew  of  re- 
ligion  once    more   watered    his   soul.      He   was 

D 


50      MY    FATHER   GOES   INTO    BUSINESS 

not  moved  to  any  extremes  ;  he  did  not  go  in 
search  of  the  Wesleyans.  nor  did  he  mortify 
the  flesh  ;  but  he  prayed  without  ceasing,  and 
experienced  considerable  spiritual  consolation. 
He  was  ten  days  in  bed  and  five  days  more 
invalided  at  home.  During  those  last  five  days 
he  began  again  to  say  the  Psalter  at  the  third 
hour  and  the  sixth  hour,  and  to  invoke  the 
Holy  Name  with  great  fervour  and  comfort. 

On  the  fifteenth  day  he  reappeared  in  the 
counting-house,  pale  and  still  suffering,  but  glad 
in  his  new-found  peace  of  soul.  Goodrich 
greeted  him  effusively.  "Well,  old  chap;  how 
are  you?  Bobbish  again.-*"  But  my  father 
clasped  his  hand  within  both  his,  and  would 
not  let  it  go.  "God  bless  you!"  he  said  with 
tears  in  his  eyes — he  had  a  very  sweet  voice, 
had  my  father — "God  bless  you!  I've  heard 
of  all  you  did  for  me."  "  Oh,  that's  all  right,  old 
chap ! "  cried  Goodrich,  uncomfortably  affected. 
"Have  a  pear.'*"  he  added  hastily,  diving  into 
his  desk  and  producing  a  bag  of  Bishops' 
Thumbs.  "  Don't  feel  like  samples  yet,  I  sup- 
pose, eh?  But  here's  the  Moselle's  lot  for 
you  to  do  ;  sixteen  bales  marked  and  num- 
bered  as   per   margin.       All    (Taring    hankies    for 


OFFICE-BOY    AND    MESSENGER  51 

the  nigger  women.  They're  a  bit  livelier  than 
grey  domestics."  Later  on,  when  Meade  was 
on  'Change  and  Wills  in  Mr.  Walshe's  room, 
he  leaned  over  the  desk  and  said  in  a  very 
confidential  whisper,  "  I  say,  old  man,  I  don't 
like  asking  ;  it  seems  beastly  mean,  but  I'm  in 
an  awful  hole.  Could  you  lend  me  ten  bob 
till  next  screw-day  .-* "  My  father  blushed  with 
vexation.  He  was  kept  entirely  without  money, 
and  had  but  the  solitary  "  bob  "  which  was  doled 
out  to  him  daily  for  his  luncheon.  He  at  once 
handed  this  to  Goodrich,  and  with  many  regrets 
promised  him  the  remaining  nine  next  morn- 
ing. So  that  day  he  got  no  lunch,  and  that 
night  he  asked  his  mother  for  money  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.  "  Money,  child !  What 
can  you  want  with  money  ? "  was  all  she  said. 
But  she  gave  him  a  sovereign. 

For  a  year  and  a  half  his  principal  work  in 
the  counting  -  house  was  keeping  the  sample- 
books.  But  John  Walshe  had  no  office-boy 
or  messenger,  and  so  his  son  filled  both  offices, 
running  errands,  delivering  letters,  carrying  par- 
cels of  samples,  leaving  and  collecting  bills  of 
exchange,  which  latter  charge  he  believed  in 
the    innocence    of    his    heart,    under   Goodrich's 


52     MY    FATHER   GOES   INTO    BUSINESS 

chaff,  to  be  of  weighty  importance.  All  this 
my  grandfather  called  "  thoroughly  grounding 
him."  He  likewise  did  many  errands  for  Good- 
rich, as,  for  instance,  "  Bring  me  a  couple  of 
bath  buns  from  Harrison's  or  Bancroft's,  Billy." 
(Goodrich  had  called  him  Billy  on  the  third 
day,  though  any  one  more  unlike  a  "  Billy  "  it 
would  be  impossible  to  imagine.)  He  was 
glad  to  be  out  of  the  stuffy  counting-house,  but 
the  length  of  time  he  would  be  gone  upon  an 
errand  was  the  subject  of  many  a  sore  and 
harsh  reprimand.  The  truth  is,  he  would  fall 
a-dreaming  over  books  which  he  picked  up  off  the 
bookstalls,  or  flatten  his  face  against  Cornish's 
windows  of  well-bound  books,  gleefully  chanting 
their  fascinating  titles  to  himself.  It  was  on  a 
bookstall  about  this  time  that  he  found,  for 
sixpence,  a  battered  copy  of  the  "  Imitation,"  a 
book  of  which  he  had  only  dimly  heard.  That 
day  he  lunched  for  sixpence,  and  this  gave  him 
the  idea  ol  lunching  on  a  couple  of  dry  rolls 
and  saving  tenpence  a  day,  which  with  his  hand- 
some salary  of  twenty-five  shillings  a  month 
enabled  him  to  acquire  a  respectable  little  store 
of  books.  Oh,  the  joy  of  those  days  when  he 
first     began    to    buy    books    and    boldly    to    ask 


A    BOLT    FOR    IT  53 

second-hand  dealers  for  their  catalogues !  Oh, 
the  joy  of  the  long  nights  when  he  read  alone 
far  into  the  morning !  For  the  first  time  he 
learned  something  about  the  moderns,  and  flared 
forth  into  a  strong  fit  of  hero-worship  for  Carlyle. 

It  was  about  this  time,  too,  that  he  noticed, 
in  passing  on  his  errands,  that  St.  Chad's  and 
St.  Augustin's  Catholic  churches  were  always 
open,  and  he  made  a  convenience  of  them  to 
pray  in  and  to  munch  his  roll  and  piece  of 
chocolate  in.  He  still  knew  absolutely  nothing 
of  Catholic  doctrines  or  practices,  nor  that  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  was  reserved  in  Catholic 
churches,  and  he  had  far  more  reverence  for 
Zion  Chapel,  Searle,  than  for  St.  Chad's  in 
Cheetham   Road. 

After  a  year  and  a  half  Goodrich  announced 
that  he  was  going  to  make  a  bolt  for  it  with- 
out giving  the  "  Governor "  previous  notice  or 
telling  any  of  his  own  people. 

"Why  don't  you  come  along  with  me,  Billy  ?" 
said  the  affectionate  creature;  "you'll  never  do 
any  good  at  this  cursed  trade." 

My  father  parted  from  him  with  tears  in  his 
eyes.  He  was  the  only  creature  approaching 
a  friend    whom   he  had.     They   had    absolutely 


54      MV    FATHER   GOES    INTO    BUSINESS 

nothing  in  common,  but  there  was  such  a 
patient  good-nature  about  Goodrich,  such  a 
humble  respect  for  any  one  whom  he  thought 
a  bit  cleverer  than  himself,  that  my  father  found 
it  a  relief  in  his  overflow  of  enthusiasm  to  talk 
"Past  and  Present"  and  "Novalis"  to  him. 
'Tis  true  that  Dick  expressed  the  opinion  that 
Carlyle  must  be  a  "rum  old  codger,"  and  that 
Billy  would  end  in  Bedlam  if  he  worried  his 
brains  about  "stickjaw  stuff"  of  that  kind,  but 
at  least  he  listened.  After  reading  the  "Essay 
on  Novalis"  for  the  first  time,  my  father  arrived 
at  the  office  with  radiant  dreamy  eyes,  and  tried 
to  explain  to  Master  Dick  that  phenomena 
had  no  real  existence,  that  the  desk  was  not 
hard  but  only  seemed  so,  and  if  our  fingers 
were  stronger  it  would  appear  soft.  This  was 
too  much  for  Goodrich  ;  he  gave  a  long  whistle, 
jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  and  said, 
"Yes,  you  didn't  find  the  wall  hard,  did  you.-* 
Oh,  no!  Not  at  all!  Y.m  bet!"  Still  my 
father  could  and  did  talk  to  the  affectionate 
fellow  on  all  manner  of  subjects  (saving  only 
perscjnal  religion),  and  nuw  they  both  had  a  lump 
in  the  throat  at  parting.  "  Sorry  about  that 
quid    I    owe    you.      Can't   wait    till    nr.xi    pay-day 


A    CLERGYMAN    OF    THE    NEW    KIND    55 

now.     But  I'll  send  it,  you  bet,"  were  Goodrich's 
last  words. 

About  this  time  a  clergyman  of  the  new  kind 
was  appointed  to  Hale  Parish  Church.  He 
was  a  spare,  worried-looking  man,  and  people 
said  (though  half  incredulously)  that  he  fasted. 
He  placed  a  plain  cross  and  two  candlesticks 
above  the  Communion  table,  and  tried  to  hide 
the  fact  that  it  was  a  table.  He  put  the  choir 
into  surplices,  and  himself  wore  at  the  Com- 
munion service  a  plain  linen  chasuble,  scarcely 
distinguishable  from  a  surplice.  There  was  a 
great  disturbance  in  the  parish.  More  important 
still,  he  preached  Baptismal  regeneration  ;  that 
Christ  was  present  in  the  Sacrament ;  that 
marriage  was  a  sacrament ;  that  fasting  com- 
munion was  a  duty ;  that  auricular  confession 
was  an  obligation.  In  the  middle  of  the  sermon 
on  Confession  my  grandfather  left  the  pew  and 
the  church,  taking  his  son  with  him.  Several 
other  gentlemen  followed  his  example.  The 
clergyman  was  very  zealous,  and  did  a  lot  of 
good  in  the  parish.  He  preached  with  great 
eagerness  and  enthusiasm — though,  to  be  sure, 
his  zeal  utterly  outran  his  discretion — and  my 
father  would    probably  have    learned  something 


56      MY    FATHER   GOES    INTO    BUSINESS 

of  Catholic  truth  from  him  had  he  not  been 
forbidden  the  parish  church  after  the  sermon 
on  Confession.  Besides,  his  mind  at  that  time 
was  full  of  Carlyle,  and  he  was  likewise  cudgel- 
ling his  brains  over  Jacob  Bohme  and  absorbed 
in  the  delights  of  Peter  Sterry's  "  Rise,  Race, 
and  Royalty  of  the  Kingdom  of  God  in  the 
Soul  of  Man."  After  about  a  year  the  clergy- 
man preached  a  farewell  sermon,  and  Mr. 
Walshe  met  him  in  after  years  at  Assisi,  not 
only  a  Catholic  priest,  but  a  Protonotary 
Apostolic  ad  instar  participant i7im. 

After  Goodrich's  departure  a  new  boy  came 
to  do  the  sample-books  and  the  errands,  and 
my  father  was  promoted  to  Goodrich's  place, 
and  had  to  copy  invoices,  cast  up  figures,  and 
keep  the  petty  cash.  The  mere  copying  he 
could  do,  but  the  addition  of  cwts..  qrs.,  lbs.,  of 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  presented  heart- 
rending difficulties.  He  would  cast  a  column 
and  check  it  to  get  a  different  result,  check  it 
again  and  again  only  to  get  a  different  result 
each  time.  The  new  boy  was  as  sharj)  as  his 
features,  and  my  father  had  to  spare  some 
shillings  away  from  books  to  get  his  assistance. 
Then  debtor  and  creditor  were  more  incompre- 


EXCESS    IN    THE    PETTY    CASH    BOX     57 

hensible  to  him  than  transcendental  philosophy 
to  Goodrich,  and  he  seems  to  have  reduced 
them  to  a  sort  of  Hegelian  hash  of  Absolute 
Identity.  After  the  first  fortnight  of  the  new 
system  a  crisis  occurred.  Mr.  Briggs,  as  in 
duty  bound,  made  a  surprise  descent  upon  the 
petty  cash  box.  It  contained  ^5  too  much, 
nor  could  the  excess  in  any  way  be  accounted 
for.  Mr.  Briggs  and  Mr.  Meade  looked  very 
grave,  and  the  new  boy  sniggered.  My  poor 
father  could  only  wonder  why  they  should  not 
be  highly  delighted  to  find  ;^5  more  than  there 
should  be.  John  Walshe  had  to  be  told.  A 
hideously  discolouring  iron  was  fast  entering 
his  soul,  and  his  words  and  deeds  reached  the 
cruelty  of  a  desperate  man,  bafifled  and  thwarted 
of  his  dearest  wish.  He  must  surely  have  seen 
at  last  that  this  son  of  his,  for  all  his  "ground- 
ing," could  never  carry  on  the  house  of  "John 
Walshe."  He  could  no  longer  strike  him,  but 
he  could  chill  and  freeze  him  ;  he  infused  a 
bitter,  biting,  black  frost  into  the  very  marrow 
of  as  sensitive  a  heart  as  ever  beat,  and  in  all 
history  I  know  nothing  like  the  despairing 
cruelty  of  it. 

Be    it    noted    that    in    the    "  Recollections," 


58      MY    FATHER   GOES    INTO    BUSINESS 

although  John  Walshe's  words  and  deeds  are 
set  forth,  yet  there  is  never  a  word  of  complaint 
against  him,  never  a  murmur.  'Tis  my  pen 
that  has  run  into  murmuring  and  more.  But 
ii  were  useless  to  dwell  upon  the  year  of 
freezing  torture  that  succeeded.  I  should  but 
offend  his  modest  spirit  by  laying  bare  his 
sufferings.  In  that  year  he  suffered  all  the 
tortures  of  hell,  and  bore  them  like  the  dear 
saint  he  was.  But  at  the  end  of  that  year 
he  suddenly  became  a  human  being,  and,  like 
Dick  Goodrich,   he  bolted. 


CHAPTER   V 

MY    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

My  father  ran  away  from  home  and  business  for 
much  the  same  reason  that  a  swallow  migrates — 
because  he  could  not  help  himself.  There  is, 
I  think,  a  theory  that  swallows  during  migration 
are  in  a  trance  and  propelled  without  volition. 
Certainly  his  psychological  frame  was  peculiar, 
nay  abnormal,  at  the  time  of  his  flight,  but  he 
was  subject  (as  will  have  been  seen),  now  and 
again,  to  powerful  inrushings  of  feeling  that 
carried  all  along  in  the  eddying  flood.  Nor 
had  he  as  yet  that  Faith  which  is  a  sure  ballast 
in  the  worst  of  storms,  nor  did  he  know  to  the 
full  that  lofty  Christianity  which  loves  abjection 
and  seeks  servitude.  During  that  last  year  of 
black  frost,  he  had  been  warming  his  heart 
for  the  first  time  with  Byron  and  Shelley,  and 
developed^  oddly  enough,  an  enthusiasm  for 
Rogers'  stilted  "  Italy."  He  read  Roscoe's  books, 
Sismondi,     Howell's    Travels,    Evelyn's    Diary, 

59 


6o        MY    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

Mrs.  Stisted's  "Bye-ways  of  Italy,"  ^  anything 
and  everything,  in  short,  about  Italy  upon  which 
he  could  lay  hands.  And  so  his  whole  soul 
became  filled  with  the  melody  of  Italy,  and  the 
voice  that  chanted  within  sang  of  deliverance 
and  salvation,  of  knowledge  and  a  vocation,  of 
rest  and  peace. 

One  evening,  in  the  early  days  of  April  1855, 
as  he  was  praying  with  fervour  by  his  bedside, 
there  came  down  upon  him  one  of  those  strong 
inrushings  of  feeling  which  had  visited  him 
three  or  four  times  in  his  life,  and  he  became 
as  clearly  convinced  that  he  must  forthwith 
start  for  Italy  as  he  had  been  convinced  in 
Zion  Chapel  of  having  found  "  Salvation,"  Since 
the  railway  had  come  to  Hale,  he  no  longer 
drove  into  town  with  my  grandfather,  but  was 
made  to  go  into  business  an  hour  earlier  by 
train.  So  he  kissed  my  grandmother  (she 
insisted  on  that  sentimental  ceremony  every 
morning  before  departure)  and  set  out  from  Hale 
in  a  fine  tension  of  feeling,  clearly  setting  Rome 

'  To  the  end  my  father  declared  that  this  was  one  of  the  very 
best  books  ever  written  about  Italy,  and  that  its  truthfulness  and 
clear  delineation  merited  that  it  should  be  rescued  from  oljlivion. 
In  sentiment  the  author  is  stronjjiy  Protestant,  but  she  is  never 
for  a  moment  out  of  sympathy  with  the  Catholic  people  she  is 
writing  about. 


ON    THE    ROAD    TO    ROME  6i 

before  him  as  a  goal.  He  dare  not  carry  off 
any  belongings  with  him  for  fear  of  observation, 
and  had  taken  an  affectionate  and  sad  farewell 
of  all  his  books — his  best  friends  and  only  com- 
forters in  the  past  three  years.  For  his  Bible  and 
the  "Imitation"  he  found  room  in  his  pockets; 
Shakespeare,  and  Rogers,  and  Peter  Sterry  he 
carried  under  his  arm.  A  cherry-wood  stick, 
and  about  ^12  which  he  had  been  saving  to 
buy  a  second-hand  copy  of  the  "  Encyclopedia 
Britannica,"  were  the  only  other  possessions  he 
took  away  with  him. 

Arrived  at  Manchester,  his  next  step  on  the 
road  to  Rome  was  to  take  the  Liverpool  train. 
I  can  picture  John  Walshes  face  at  not  finding 
him  at  the  office.  I  seem  to  hear  him  say, 
•'  Mr.  Meade,  tell  Mr.  William  I  desire  to  see 
him  at  once  when  he  arrives."  I  can  picture 
his  angry  restlessness  during  the  day,  his  cold, 
harsh  communication  of  the  news  at  night,  and 
my  grandmother's  pearly  tears  and  rigid  faint. 
My  father  made  inquiry  in  Liverpool,  and  found 
there  was  a  steamer  sailing  for  Leghorn  within 
three  or  four  days.  That  would  bring  him 
tolerably  near  to  Rome.  He  paid  five  pounds 
for  a  second-class  ticket,   and   rashly  spent  an- 


62         MV    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

other  five  pounds  in  clothes  and  a  vaHse,  so 
that,  when  he  got  on  board  the  Scameiv,  he 
had  but  ten  shillings  left  in  the  world.  On 
the  day  of  sailino-  he  posted  this  letter  to  his 
mother  : — 

"  Liver I'ooi,,  April  lo,  1855. 
'*  My  Dear  Mamma/ — I  have  gone  away  be- 
cause I  am  unhappy  in  business  and  quite  un- 
fitted for  business.  Things  would  all  go  wrong 
if  I  were  to  stay.  I  am  going  to  Italy.  What 
is  going  to  happen  to  me  there  I  don't  know, 
but  it  will  be  something  good.  I  am  obeying 
a  call.  Don't  be  distressed  about  me ;  don't 
be  anxious ;  don't  worry.  I  will  write  to  you 
as  soon  as  I  am  settled,  and  that  will  be  very 
soon.  —  I  remain,  with  love,  your  affectionate 
son,  Willie." 

My  father  read  the  Bible  and  the  "  Imitation" 
throughout  the  voyage.  He  tried  Shakespeare 
and  Rogers,  but  was  in  too  exalted  a  state.  He 
tried  Sterry,  but  the  salt  of  the  sea  seemed  to 
take  all  the  savour  out  of  his  mysticism.  He 
had  never  been  at  sea  before.  The  sea  invigo- 
rated him  ;  it  lifted  him  up  out  of  himself.     The 

'   Mrs.  W.ilshc  would  not  allow  the  expression  "mother,"  which 
she  thought  "  im^LiUccI  .iiitl  inelegant." 


A    NEW    SONG    OF    THE    SEA  63 

sea  seemed  to  him  so  scriptural ;  it  brought  him 
nearer  God.  It  seemed  to  him  like  a  type  of 
God :  creatures  lived  in  it,  moved  in  it,  had  their 
being  from  it.  So  men  lived  and  moved  in  God, 
had  their  being  from  God,  and  yet  were  distinct 
from  God.  Praise  was  in  his  heart.  New  songs 
and  hymns  and  psalms  of  praise,  half  his  own 
composition,  surged  in  his  soul  and  rang  through 
every  corner  of  his  mind.  He  made  a  new  song 
of  the  sea  all  taken  from  Holy  Writ,  and  that 
he  would  chant  to  himself  to  Mornington  or 
Windsor,  lying  in  the  bows  or  leaning  over  the 
stern  of  the  vessel : — 

"  Sing  unto  the  Lord  a  new  song,  and  His  praise  from 
the  end  of  the  earth,  ye  that  go  down  to  the  sea,  and  all 
that  is  therein  ;  the  isles,  and  the  inhabitants  thereof. 

"  The  earth  is  full  of  Thy  riches.  So  is  this  great  and 
wide  sea,  wherein  are  things  creeping  innumerable,  both 
small  and  great  beasts. 

"  There  go  the  ships :  there  is  that  Leviathan  whom 
Thou  hast  made  to  play  therein. 

"  They  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  that  do 
business  in  great  waters :  these  see  the  works  of  the 
Lord  and  His  wonders  in  the  deep. 

"  For  He  commandeth,  and  raiseth  the  stormy  wind, 
which  lifteth  up  the  waves  thereof 

"  They  mount  up  to  heaven,  they  go  down  again  to  the 
depths  ;  their  soul  is  melted  because  of  the  trouble. 


64        MY    FEATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

"The  floods  have  hfted  up,  O  Lord,  the  floods  have 
hfted  up  their  voice ;  the  floods  hft  up  their  waves. 

"  Deep  calleth  unto  deep  at  the  noise  of  Thy  water- 
spouts; all  Thy  waves  and  Tliy  billows  have  gone  over 
me. 

"Thy  way  is  in  the  sea,  and  Thy  path  in  the  great 
waters,  and  Thy  footsteps  are  not  known. 

"  The  Lord  on  high  is  mightier  than  the  noise  of  many 
waters,  yea,  than  the  mighty  waves  of  the  sea. 

"  Let  the  heaven  and  eartii  praise  Him,  the  seas  and 
everything  that  moveth  therein. 

"O  ye  seas  and  floods,  bless  ye  the  Lord :  praise  Him 
and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 

"  Glory  be  to  the  Father  and  to  the  Son  :  and  to  the 
Holy  Ghost. 

"  As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall 
be,  world  without  end.     Amen." 

Time  passed  with  incredible  swiftness.  The 
fit  of  exaltatic^n  was  strong  upon  him  ;  he  cannot 
remember  what  the  captain  was  like,  or  any  of 
his  f(;llow-passengers.  On  the  evening  of  tlie 
fifteenth  day  the  Castle  of  Leghorn  was  sighted. 
The  tlag  which  (lew  over  it  no  longer  llies  in 
Tuscany.  It  was  a  red  flag  with  a  broad  white 
stripe,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  strij^e  were  the 
arms  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  destined  to 
reign  only  four  years  more  over  his  Duchy.  My 
father  landed,  and  had  his  valise  carried  to  a  little 


MY  FATHER'S  APPEARANCE  65 

inn  in  the  main  street :  it  was  impossible  to  start 
for  Rome  that  night.  By  the  time  he  had  paid 
his  boat  and  porterage,  he  had  but  two  florins  left. 
The  circumstance  did  not  trouble  him  in  the  least ; 
he  intended  to  start  for  Rome  the  next  day. 

In  the  morning  he  sallied  forth  to  sell  his 
watch.  It  was  an  inexpensive  silver  watch  given 
him  by  his  father  at  the  time  he  entered  business, 
so  that  he  might  in  no  wise  exceed  the  luncheon 
half-hour.  He  could  not  hope  to  realise  more 
than  thirty  Tuscan  livres  upon  it,  but  these 
might  take  him  to  his  goal,  and  there  God 
would  provide.  I  must  tell  you  that  by  this  time 
my  father  had  grown  into  a  very  engaging  and 
striking-looking  youth ;  nay,  I  will  call  him  a 
very  handsome  youth.  His  thick,  straight,  deep 
chestnut  hair  was  of  a  most  beautiful  rich  tint ; 
he  wore  it  rather  long,  as  was  the  fashion  then, 
and  it  still  inclined  forward  as  in  Boxall's  picture, 
giving  him  a  most  winning  look  of  innocence 
and  wisdom.  The  bright  eyes  were  clear  hazel, 
the  soft  lashes  still  those  of  a  child,  his  chin  was 
grown  longer,  though  most  delicately  moulded. 
And  there  was  still  upon  the  face  that  slight 
look  of  sad  and  serious  questioning  (though  to  be 
sure  mingled  with  a  serene  loving-kindness),  that 


66        MY    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

faint  perplexed  drawing  together  of  the  eye- 
brows, which  had  been  entirely  smoothed  away 
when  I  came  into  the  world. 

The  wonderingf  Livornesi  stared  at  him  as  he 
walked  down  the  hiofh  street  in  search  of  a 
jeweller.  He  heeded  them  not,  heeded  none, 
save  a  tall,  spare,  grave  gentleman  whose  face 
seemed  to  shine  like  a  beacon.  Upon  him  he 
gazed  very  steadfastly,  and  the  gentleman  as 
steadfastly  returned  his  gaze.  They  passed  very 
close,  and  their  eyes  met  very  full.  My  father's 
heart  thumped  against  his  side.  After  they  had 
passed  he  turned  round  to  look,  and  the  gentle- 
man too  had  turned  round  and  was  looking. 
Then  my  father  stopped  short  for  very  wonder- 
ment, and  the  gentleman  too  stopped  short,  and 
came  back  upon  him  with  three  of  his  long 
swinsfinir  strides. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  speak  with  me,  young 
gentleman  .-* "  he  inquired  in  a  voice  singularly 
sweet  and  piano  in  one  so  tall  and  wiry. 

My  father's  answer  was  peculiar.  It  was  a 
question,  the  question  of  one  who  believes  most 
thoroughly  in  the  intimate  affectionate  interpo- 
sitions of  Divine  Providence.  "  Were  you  sent 
to  meet  me,  sir  ?  "  he  asked. 


A  RENCONTRE  67 

The  gentleman  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  Who 
knows,  "  he  said,  "  that  I  may  not  have  been 
sent  to  meet  you.  Almighty  God  moves  in  a 
mysterious  way,  and  chooses  strange  instruments 
in  the  working  of  His  mercies." 

Now  my  father  had  never  been  accustomed 
to  meet  with  men  who  spoke  of  "  God "  and 
His  "mercies"  and  His  "marvels"  just  as  if  it 
were  all  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world, 
and  when  he  heard  this  gentleman  in  his  soft 
tones  assign  to  Almighty  God  that  position  in 
the  universe  which  the  boy  had  ever  striven  to 
give  Him  in  his  heart,  he  was  so  affected  that 
he  could  utter  no  word. 

The  gentleman  looked  hard  at  my  father  in 
his  grave,  kind  way.  Then  he  spoke  :  "  You're 
in  trouble,  young  sir.  Come  and  tell  me  all 
about  it ;  then  we  shall  know  whether  I  was 
sent  to  meet  you  or  not.  If  I  can  help  you  I 
gladly  will." 

My  father  dared  not  thank  him  for  fear  the 
tears  should  have  burst  their  floodgates.  The 
gentleman  linked  his  arm  through  my  father's, 
and  they  walked  back  in  silence  to  the  little 
inn  and  went  straight  up  to  the  dingy  little 
bed-chamber.     Once  there,  my  father  began  to 


68        MY    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

talk.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he 
had  ever  talked  of  himself.  He  did  not  merely 
tell  the  story  of  his  running  away  ;  he  began 
at  the  beginning  and  told  everything — every- 
thing. He  did  not  blame  his  father  and  mother, 
but  he  did  not  shield  them.  He  told  every- 
thing— everything  :  his  beatings  at  home  ;  his 
furtive  readings  ;  how  he  had  tried  to  hide  his 
life  with  Christ  in  God  when  a  baby  ;  then  his 
school  life,  his  beatincrs  and  bullvinLTS  there  ;  of 
the  Rev.    Isaac    Mitton  ;   of  the   "laura"  on  the 

sandhills  ;    of   Mr.    B and    the  noble  Latin 

language,  and  how  he  might  not  continue  Latin 
in  the  last  term  ;  of  his  disastrous  first  day  in 
business ;  of  his  desultory  readings  and  blind 
aspirations  ;  of  his  last  day  in  business  and  des- 
perate fiight.  He  told  everything — everything  ; 
more  than  I  have  told  you,  reader,  more  perhaps 
even  than  is  set  down  in  the  "  Recollections." 

The  gentleman  had  been  standing  at  first 
during  this  recital,  and  so  had  my  father. 
Midway  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
and  my  father  dr(^j)j)ed  on  his  knees  beside 
him  and  gripped  his  hand  tight,  sometimes 
burying  his  face  in  the  coverlid,  and  now  and 
again     looking    up     for     invigoration     into     the 


THE  ENVOY  OF  GOD  69 

gentleman's  kind,  serious  face.  When  he  had 
made  an  end  of  the  long  story,  the  gentle- 
man was  silent  for  a  space,  thinking  very  hard, 
and  in  the  process  his  eyes  got  very  soft  and 
moist.  My  father  seized  his  hand  and  kissed 
it  with  fervour.  At  length  the  gentleman 
broke  silence. 

"  I  think,  young  sir,"  says  he,  "  that  I  can 
now  answer  your  first  question.  I  was  sent 
here  to  meet  you  to-day,  and  it  was  Almighty 
God  who  sent  me.  Will  you  trust  His  envoy 
and  come  home  with  me  }     I  live  above  Lucca." 

"  Indeed  I  will ! "  cried  my  father  eagerly. 
"  But  I  have  no  money  to  pay  the  journey," 
he  added  ruefully,  "  unless  I  can  sell  my  watch." 

The  gentleman  laughed  for  the  first  time. 
"  You  will  travel  in  my  postchaise,"  he  an- 
swered. "  And  as  regards  money,"  he  went 
on,  "  I  will  teach  you  how  to  make  money  ; 
and  you  will  have  to  do  a  good  deal  of  Latin 
in  the  process  of  making  money,"  he  added 
with  a  smile.  "  Do  you  know  if  the  Seamew 
has  put  in  ?  " 

"  I  travelled  by  her,  sir,"  answered  my  father. 

"  Good ! "  said  the  gendeman  emphatically. 
'•  She  is  bringing  me  a  case  of  rare  books.      I 


70        MY    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

wish  to  see  them  through  the  custom-house 
myself." 

"Books!"  cried  the  young  gentleman  from 
Manchester  with  his  mouth  open. 

"  Oh,  you'll  find  my  home  full  of  books,  and 
some  very  good  books  too,"  rej)lied  the  gentle- 
man, laughing  again.  "  But,  by  the  way,"  he 
added  good  -  humouredly,  "you've  told  me  a 
long  story,  young  sir,  but  there's  one  thing 
you  have  not  told  me,  and  that  is  your  name." 

My  father  excused  himself  for  the  unwitting 
omission.  "  My  name  is  Walshe,"  he  answered  ; 
"my  father  is " 

"We  are  of  the  same  county,"  interrupted 
the  gentleman.  "  My  name  is  Markham,  and 
I  am  called  Lord  Frederick  Markham  because 
my  father  was  the  Marquis  of  Clitheroe.  Your 
father  must  be  the  merchant  o(  Preston  Square. 
I  have  heard  of  him.  My  brother,  the  present 
owner  of  Clitheroe,  has  dined  at  his  house 
upon  some  political  occasion.  And  now  to 
the  custom-house,"  he  continued,  "and  then 
to  luncheon  or  '  collazionc,'  as  you  will  soon 
come  to  call  it,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  evening 
we  will  drive  home  to    Lucca." 

In   the  cool   of   the  evening    they   started    off 


A  BEAUTIFUL  DRIVE  71 

in  an  open  chaise,  and  my  father's  eyes,  you 
may  be  sure,  were  staring  wide  at  the  strange 
new  country  through  which  they  passed.  Their 
road  took  them  through  Pisa,  and  when  the 
new-comer  beheld  the  stately  magnificence  of 
the  palaces  on  the  Lung'  Arno,  he  held  his 
breath  in  exultation.  Lord  Frederick  made 
his  driver  go  a  little  out  of  the  way,  so  as  to 
pass  the  group  of  the  Duomo,  and  Baptistery, 
and  Leaning  Tower.  These  were  the  first 
beautiful  and  noble  buildings  that  my  father 
had  ever  gazed  upon,  and  he  closed  his  eyes 
at  the  sight  of  their  splendour,  just  as  if  he 
had  been  gazing  at  the  sun. 

When  they  got  outside  the  city  Lord 
Frederick  said  to  him  :  "  I  might  take  you  by 
a  shorter  road  over  those  hills  there  that  shut 
out  the  sight  of  Lucca  from  the  Pisans.  But 
I  have  some  business  in  the  town  of  Lucca,  so 
we  will  take  the  main  road  through  Rigoli  and 
Ripafratta.  The  fact  is,  I've  ordered  a  very 
modest  Te  Deum  in  the  Cathedral  at  six  this 
evening  in  thanksgiving  for  the  recovery  of 
one  of  my  peasants  after  a  dangerous  accident. 
It's  quite  a  small  affair,  without  organ  or  orches- 
tra.     I  prefer  it  like  that  when  I  can  get  it." 


72        MY    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

To  order  a  Te  Deu?n  struck  my  father  as  a 
strange  phrase.  "Can  an  Englishman  have  a 
Te  Deiwi  in  an  Italian  cathedral,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  Catholic,  you  know,"  replied 
Lord    Frederick. 

A  Catholic !  That  was  an  even  stranger 
phrase  to  my  father.  He  associated  it  with 
nothing,  or  only  with  formalism  and  idolatry, 
with  burning  and  torture,  and  here  was  the 
envoy  of  God,  a  Catholic. 

The  chaise  jog-trotted  through  the  Porta 
Santa    Maria    and    through    the    narrow    streets 

o 

of  Lucca  into  the  still  and  deeply  devotional 
Piazza  del  Duomo.  The  fountain  in  the  ad- 
jacent Piazza  degli  Antelminclli  was  leaping 
high  into  the  blue  heavens.  The  chaise  pulled 
up  in  front  of  the  Duomo.  IMy  father  lifted 
his  eyes  and  gazed  up  at  the  austere  yet 
elaborate  facade.  He  saw  there  the  rude 
effigy  of  a  mounted  warrior  dividing  his  cloak 
with  his  sword,  and  giving  the  half  of  it  to 
another  man.  He  knew  nothing  of  St.  Martin 
or  of  any  of  the  Saints,  but  his  first  impression 
of  Lucca  was  of  a  man  in   the  act  of  giving. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  "  asked  my  father  as  Lord 
Frederick  descended. 

"  To  be  sure,  if  you  like.  Why,  they've 
begun!"  he  continued  under  his  breath  as  they 


TE  DEUM   LAUDAMUS 


73 


entered  the  cool,  grey  devotional  Duomo  ;  "what 
unusual  punctuality ! " 

The  Duomo  was  about  a  quarter  filled,  chiefly 
with  poor  people  and  peasants.  My  father  was 
struck  dumb  with  amazement.  "  Why,  what  is 
this  language  that  these  poor  people  are  sing- 
ing.'*"   he  thought. 


^ 


B- 


Ti  -  bi  Che-ru-  bim  et     Se  -  ra-phim,  in  -  ces  -  sa  -  bi  -  li 


i;;  *^  ■ = 


vo  -  ce  pro-  cla-mant. 

Why,  it  is  Latin !  he  said  to  himself  exultantly, 

Latin !  Latin  !  not  as  Mr.  B had  pronounced 

it,  but  Latin  surely  something  as  Horace  himself 
must  have  pronounced  it.  Latin !  Latin !  the 
sweetest  consolation  of  the  darkest  hours  of  his 
dark  school-life. 


fc 


San 


ctus. 


sang  the  choir  in  the 
sanctuary. 


I 


San 


ctus. 


* 


replied  the  people 
in  the  body  of  the 
church. 


San  -  ctus,  Do  •  mi   •    nus     De  •    us 
answered  the  choir  triumphantly. 


Sa  ■  ba  -  oth. 


74        MY    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 


The  congregation  was  standing  bolt  upright, 
but  my  poor  father  had  sunk  upon  his  knees  to 
try  and  hide  his  emotion.  Latin  !  Latin  !  Then 
Latin  was  not  dead,  but  hving!  Latin!  And 
there  were  people,  and  there  were  peasants,  who 
praised  God  in  Latin  ! — 


^ 


a 


Tu       Rex      glo    -    ri     -     ae,        Chri  -  ste. 

Christe !  then  Jesus  of  the  orchard,  Jesus 
of  the  "  laura  "  on  the  sandhills,  Jesus  of  black 
Manchester  was  praised  by  living  human  beings 
in   Latin  ! 


■-■— ^-■-■4 


Te  er  -  go   quae-su-mus,   tu  -  is     fa  -  mu-lis     sub  -ve-  ni, 


^^ 


quos    pre  -  ti  -    6  -  so     san  •  gui  -  ne      red  -  e   -  mi  -  eti. 

Here  all   the  people  dropped   on   their   knees 
beside  my  father — 


^ 


xzt 


Ai  -  tcr  -  na  fac  cum     San  -  ctis       tu     ■     is, 


*^ 


^     ■      ■      ' 


?S 


S 


n. 


in        gI6    -    ri      -      a  nu     -     nu-  •     rd 

Here  all   the  people  rose,  and  my  father  rose 
with  them,  a  much   changed  young  man.     The 


THE  ACT  OF  PRAISE  75 

people  and  the  peasants  of  Lucca  had  taught 
him  in  a  brief  quarter  of  an  hour  that  which 
he  had  bHndly  sought  from  infancy :  how  to 
praise,  in  spirit  and  in  truth,  the  Lord  God  of 
Hosts,  the  Creator  of  the  universe,  the  Author 
and  Ruler  of  his  being.  Praise,  he  suddenly 
divined,  was  an  act — an  inward  act,  independent 
of  all  words,  and  yet  clothed  in  words  because 
of  the  nature  of  things.  This  clothing  of  words 
should  then  be  in  the  most  beautiful,  the  most 
majestic,  the  most  devotional  language  known, 
and  that  was  Latin  !  Latin !  This  act  of  praise 
should  be  clothed  in  the  same  language  all  the 
world  over ;  it  should  be  used  by  the  simple 
and  humble,  equally  with  the  wise  and  learned. 
Not  all  would  understand  the  words  of  this 
mystical  tongue,  but  all  would  comprehend  the 
mystical  grandeur  of  the  act.  And  this  lesson 
he  had  learned  from  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers 
of  water,  from  tillers  of  the  earth  and  drovers 
of  flocks  and  herds,  and  in  Latin  !    in  Latin  ! 

Lord  Frederick  touched  his  elbow.  They 
were  already  out  in  the  open  green  country. 
He  pointed  up  to  a  great  grey  building,  with 
many  small  windows  and  a  diminutive  spire  at 
one  corner.     "That,"  he  said,  "is  a  Franciscan 


76        MY    FATHER    LEAVES    BUSINESS 

convent — Observantins — a  novitiate."  His  words 
were  unintelligible  to  my  father,  but  he  sought 
no  explanation.  "  Sanctus  .  .  .  Sanctus  .  .  . 
Sanctus  ..."  rang  in  his  brain.  "  And  the 
building  just  below,"  continued  Lord  Frederick, 
"  is  my  house,  which  I  hope  you  will  make  your 
home  until  Heaven  is  pleased  to  show  you  your 
vocation  in  life." 

"  Sanctus  .  .  .  Sanctus  .  .  .  Sanctus  ..." 
answered  my  father,  half  aloud. 

The  heavy  wrought-iron  gates  of  the  villa 
creaked  loudly  as  the  smiling  lodge-porter  opened 
them,  and  the  chaise  rolled  leisurely  down  a 
shady  avenue  of  maples.  A  peasant  or  two 
doffed  caps  and  smiled  ;  half  a  du/cn  barefooted 
women  curtseyed  and  smiled  ;  an  old  man 
munching  his  evening  meal  held  up  his  crusts, 
smiling,  and  said  to  his  rich  and  noble  master  : 
"  Vuol  favorire,  Signor  Barone .''  Will  you  par- 
take with  me,  my  lord.-*"  A  smiling  old  serving- 
man,  with  brown  wrinkled  face  and  short  white 
hair,  was  at  the  foot  of  the  perron,  waiting  to 
receive  them. 

"Hen  tomato,  Signor  Harone  !  " 

"  Buona  sera,  Baldassare  !      All  well  ,•*  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  ' 


SAFE  INTO   HAVEN  77 

''And  the  Signorina?" 

"  The  Baronessina  has  gone  to  dress  for 
dinner." 

"Then  we  must  hurry.  Come!"  he  said  to 
my  father. 

The  young  gentleman  from  Manchester  walked 
up  the  noble  marble  steps  of  the  perron  in  a 
dream.  He  felt  that  he  had  come  safe  into 
haven  at  last,  after  terrific  storms  and  untold 
dangers,  and  as  he  paused  at  the  top  of  the 
steps  and  gazed  over  the  smiling  fertile  country, 
the  act  of  praise  welled  up  in  his  heart :  "  Sanc- 
tus  .  .  .  Sanctus  .  .  .  Sanctus  .  .  .  Dominus 
Deus  Sabaoth.  Pleni  sunt  coeli  et  terra :  ma- 
jestatis  glorise  tuse  ...  In  te,  Domine,  speravi : 
non  confundar  in  aeternum." 


CHAPTER  VI 

MY    FATHER    FALLS    IN    LOVE 

The  villa  was  a  much  bigger  place  than  it 
seemed  as  seen  from  the  road  below.  There 
were  some  huge  rooms  in  it  ;  the  hall  was  huge  ; 
the  library  on  the  first  floor  (which  should  have 
been  the  salone)  was  hugest  of  all.  Frescoes 
in  monochrome  decorated  the  exterior,  and  a 
Renaissance  frieze  ran  round  the  whole  build- 
inof  beneath  the  overhanijinor  eaves.  The  marble 
perron  and  the  loggia  were  of  the  noblest  pro- 
portions. Lord  Frederick  Markham  had  been 
living  here  some  twenty  years  now.  He  had 
become  a  Catholic  in  1826,  long  before  the  tide 
of  conversions  set  in,  and  independent  of  any 
Oxford  influence.  His  conversion  made  a  family 
stir,  for  the  Markhams  were  very  Evangelical. 
(You  may  have  heard  of  the  prayer-meetings  at 
Clitheroe  House  in  St.  James  Square,  and  of 
the   late   Marquis'  preaching.)       He  had  already 

inherited    a    handsome    portion    from    the    sixth 

78 


LORD  FREDERICK  MARKHAM     79 

Marquis,  or  it  might  have  gone  but  hardly  with 
him. 

Life  at  home  or  among  his  set  had  become 
difficult,  if  not  impossible.  He  drifted  abroad. 
When  at  Cambridge  he  had  thought  of  becom- 
ing a  priest.  His  confessor  at  Rome  told  him 
that  he  had  no  vocation  ;  he  tried  two  other 
confessors,  and  they  told  him  the  same  story. 
He  would  have  tried  a  fourth,  so  determined 
was  he,  but  that  he  suddenly  fell  deeply  in  love 
with  Elisa  Fabriani,  only  daughter  of  Count 
Fabriani  of  Lucca  and  Rome,  and  so  found  his 
vocation.  They  were  married,  and  she  brought 
him  the  big  villa  above  Lucca  as  her  portion. 
Alas,  poor  lady !  she  died  in  childbirth  in  the 
year  1841  after  but  six  years  of  a  most  felici- 
tous wedded  life,  and  it  was  the  great  sorrow 
of  her  death  that  made  Lord  Frederick  a  trifle 
grave. 

There  was  a  large  podere  attached  to  the 
Villa  Fabriani.  Lord  Frederick  bought  two 
others  near  the  villa,  so  that  he  might  have  an 
active  interest  in  life.  His  contadini  adored 
him.  Had  he  used  the  power  of  life  and 
death  among  them,  not  a  soul  of  them  would 
have   demurred.      He    did    very    frequently   use 


8o  MY    FATHER    FALLS    IN    LOVE 

his  power  to  prevent  premature  and  unsuitable 
marriages.  Lord  Frederick  was  an  expert  hus- 
bandman, but  he  made  no  attempt  to  introduce 
"reforms,"  or  machinery,  or  English  methods 
on  his  poderi,  holding  such  things  to  be  en- 
tirely unsuitable  to  the  needs  of  Tuscan  agri- 
culture and  the  Tuscan  peasants  at  that  time. 
Rising  up  behind  the  villa  was  terrace  upon 
terrace  of  olive  trees,  and  his  oil  was  eagerly 
sought  upon  the  Leghorn  market.  Running 
round  three  sides  of  the  garden  was  a  pergola 
that  recalled  a  monastic  cloister,  and  enjoyed 
great  fame  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  garden 
was  a  bit  wild,  but  so  Lord  Frederick  had 
found  and  liked  it,  and  so  he  declared  it  should 
be  kept.  There  was  an  abundance  of  chrysan- 
themums, verbena,  mignonette,  feather-grass, 
calycanthus,  and  yellow  mimosa  ;  sweet  jasmine 
ran  wild  over  the  terrace  walls  ;  azaleas,  oleanders, 
lilac,  peonies,  guelder  roses,  the  purple  and  white 
orris,  here  and  there  made  agreeable  i)atches  of 
bright  ctjlour.  Among  the  trees,  forming  a  bosco 
on  either  side,  were  the  homely  hazel  and  the 
hornbeam,  the  cypress,  tall  holly,  and  ihc  holm- 
oak,  pomegranates  and  magnolias  in  full  (lower. 
And  note  thai  the    hill   rose  up  almt).-,t  immcdi- 


AN  OLD  GARDEN  8i 

ately  at  the  back  of  the  villa,  so  that  there 
was  terrace  upon  terrace  in  this  garden  after 
the  first  three  hundred  feet  of  level  ground. 
White  statues  of  gods  and  goddesses  (mostly 
with  their  noses  and  fingers  broken)  shone  out 
among  the  acacia  groves,  and  moss-covered 
busts  and  lichened  vases  dotted  the  broad  balus- 
trades of  the  terraces.  Ruffs  and  reeves,  lapwings 
and  curlews,  and  many  a  strange  red-legged 
bird  from  the  marshes,  stepped  daintily  across 
the  grass  plots,  clearing  the  garden  of  snails 
and  slugs,  while  from  the  top  of  one  of  the 
marble  pilasters  an  arrogant  white  peacock  sur- 
veyed the  domain  as  if  it  were  his  own,  shriek- 
ing a  caveat  to  all  comers.  On  the  second 
terrace  there  was  a  brave  show  of  fountains 
that  played  on  saints'  days  and  holidays,  and 
a  pond  full  of  carp  for  Fridays  and  the  Lenten 
season. 

At  the  end  of  the  last  of  the  garden  terraces 
began  the  terraces  of  the  olive  orchards,  and 
when  you  had  passed  the  last  of  these  you 
were  in  the  woodland  path  that  led  up  to  the 
Observantin  Convent.  Oh,  what  gentle,  what 
exquisite,  what  sweet-smelling  woods !  Oxeye 
daisies,  marigolds,  and  feverfew,  the  purple  and 


82  MY    FATHER    FALLS    IN    LOVE 

bee  orchis,  red  and  white  rock  cistus,  red  and 
white  campions,  grape  hyacinths,  stars  of  Beth- 
lehem, wood  anemones,  and  how  many  more, 
were  among  the  flowers  ;  thyme  and  mint,  borage 
and  rosemary,  lavender  and  horchound,  among 
the  herbs ;  honeysuckle  and  old  man's  beard, 
bryony  and  sarsaparilla  and  dog  roses,  among 
the  creepers  ;  myrtle  and  arbutus,  juniper  and 
broom,  and  the  Erica  arborea,  among  the 
shrubs ;  while  chestnut  and  ash,  larch  and  the 
elder-tree,  stone-pines  and  holmoaks  were  among 
the  trees.  Green  lizards  tumbled  and  darted 
across  the  yellow  path ;  snakes  left  their  sun- 
bath  for  the  underwood  at  your  coming ;  the 
birds  joined  in  chorus  with  the  cicali  and  the 
frogs.  And  do  but  turn  you  round  about  and 
behold  the  gentle  city  of  Lucca — gentle  as  the 
Holy  Face  which  it  enshrines — with  her  many 
towers  and  green  ramparts,  slumbering  in  a 
heat  mist  of  the  early  spring  ;  the  great  plain, 
dotted  with  villages  and  studded  with  villas,  cut 
in  two  by  the  noble  aqueduct  of  Duchess 
Maria  Louisa  ;  and  far  away  beyond  upon  the 
horizon  the  tall  tower  of  Porcari  and  the  walled 
township  of  Montecarlo  San  Salvadore. 

Into   this   realm   of  sunshine,   into    this    sweet 


A  TUSCAN   BEDROOM  83 

and  restful  paradise,  into  a  blithe  company  of 
the  lowly  who  praised  God  in  Latin,  stepped  my 
father  with  his  vivid  imagination,  straight  from 
the  smoke  and  grime  and  fog,  from  the  hurry 
and  scurry,  the  rattle  and  roar,  the  give  and  take, 
of  Manchester  :  for  freezing  hate  he  found  warm 
love ;  for  drudgery,  liberty ;  for  darkness,  light. 
He  had  fallen  asleep  in  Hades  ;  now  he  dreamt 
that  he  was  in  Paradise,  and  he  knew  that 
some  great  awakening  was  at  hand.  'Twas  the 
awakening  of  his  real  self  which  had  hitherto 
slumbered,  or  only  fitfully  been  roused  as  be- 
tween waking  and  sleeping. 

But  I  must  go  back  to  my  narrative.  On  that 
first  evening  of  arrival,  Baldassare  led  my  father 
up  to  a  lofty  airy  bedroom.  The  furniture  in  it 
was  spare ;  the  walls  washed  with  but  a  plain 
yellow  distemper ;  the  floors  paved  with  broad 
red  bricks,  now  shining  with  the  polish  of  cen- 
turies. White  dimity  curtains  hung  from  the 
oaken  bedstead ;  the  high-backed  chairs  were 
likewise  of  oak ;  the  mirror  stood  in  a  great 
swing  frame  ;  green  jalousies,  which  Baldassare 
now  opened  wide,  had  kept  the  room  cool  and 
sweet ;  on  the  ceiling  five  or  six  putti  sported  in 
the  bulofing-  masses  of  a  white  cloudland.      It  was 


84  MY    FATHER    FALLS     IN  LOVE 

the  wholesomest  sight  my  father  had  ever  seen 
within  doors,  and  the  Tuscan  simplicity  of  it 
went  straight  to  his  heart.  But  what  is  this  on 
either  side  of  the  bed  ?  On  the  one  side  a 
triptych  with  Our  Lady  of  Perpetual  Succour, 
St.  Michael,  our  defender  in  the  day  of  battle,  and 
St.  Martin,  that  dispenser  of  goods  to  the  poor 
whom  he  had  seen  over  the  Duomo.  On  the 
other — 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  my  father  with  much  feeling. 

"  E  il  volto  Santo  di  Lucca,  Signorino,"  ex- 
plained Baldassare,  approvingly. 

But  my  father  knew  no  word  of  the  Tuscan 
tongue.  He  gazed  in  mute  meditation  upon  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  touching,  the  most 
speaking  face  of  the  Redeemer  which  he  had 
ever  beheld.  Often  had  he  spoken  to  Jesus ; 
now  the  Lord  Jesus  was  speaking  to  him. 

"Si  spicci,  si  spicci, — hurry,  hurry,"  said 
Baldassare;  "  e  I'ora  del  desinare."  (Note  that 
simple  and  beautiful  "desinare"  to  dine,  even  in 
a  great  house.  Now-a-days  we  no  longer  dine — 
we  "  pranzare  "  or  banqu(;t.) 

My  father  washed  himself  in  haste,  changed 
his  shirt,  got  into  a  very  ill-fitting  suit  of  black 
which  he  had  bought  at   Liverpool,  and  loosely 


THE  LIBRARY  85 

tied  his  Byronic  wisp  of  black  silk.  Then  he 
descended  to  the  library.  There  he  stood  gasping 
in  the  middle  of  the  huge  room,  his  breath  taken 
from  him  by  these  rows  upon  rows  of  leather 
and  parchment  backs,  fine  folios  in  the  lower 
shelves,  rising  up  to  quartos  and  octavos  and 
diminutive  duodecimos  in  the  shelves  above. 
There  was  a  glass  cupboard  of  parchments  care- 
fully rolled  or  folded,  with  a  ticket  hanging  from 
each ;  these  were  the  charters,  the  briefs  and 
bulls,  the  letters  -  patent  and  notarial  deeds. 
There  was  a  glass  cupboard  of  books  bound  in 
boards  or  parchment ;  these  were  the  codexes. 
On  the  ceiling  there  was  another  heaven  ;  Our 
Lady  was  being  assumed  into  it,  surrounded  by 
angels  and  many  putti ;  nosegays  of  bright 
coloured  flowers  were  strewn  amonsf  the  clouds 
and  the  angels.  And  as  my  father  gazed  up  in 
wonder  at  this  constant  presentment  of  heaven 
upon  earth,  and  marvelled  at  the  people  who 
were  for  ever  presenting  it,  he  heard  a  sound  as 
of  the  rustling  of  these  angels'  wings.  But  the 
sound  brought  him  down  to  the  earth  from 
whence  it  came ;  and  looking  over  towards  the 
high  marble  mantelpiece,  he  saw  a  young  girl 
buried   deep   in    a    brown    high-backed    leathern 


86  MY    FATHER    FALLS    IN    LOVE 

arm-chair.  Her  elbow  rested  upon  the  twisted 
wooden  arm  of  the  chair  ;  her  head  rested  upon 
her  right  hand  ;  her  left  hand  held  up  a  big 
book  ;  and  the  book  rested  upon  her  knee.  The 
girl  was  not  more  than  fourteen,  though  well- 
grown  after  the  manner  of  Italian  children.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  thin  black  merino,  and  her 
frock  was  still  short.  She  wore  a  white  cambric 
pinafore,  white  stockings  and  black  shiny  shoes, 
buttoned  across  the  instep  by  a  strap.  Her 
black  hair,  cut  short,  but  now  grown  down  below 
the  neck,  was  held  back  by  a  tortoise-shell 
"crop"  comb,  which  kept  the  black  shock  from 
falling  in  her  eyes.  Her  face  was  marble  white 
rather  than  Tuscan  olive  ;  her  black  eyes  dazzled 
by  their  mingled  sweetness  and  vivacity.  My 
father  stood  stock-still  and  clasped  his  hands. 
The  girl  looked  full  at  him  in  great  surprise,  but 
he  looked  up  into  the  painted  heaven  as  if  to 
see  which  of  the  angels  it  was  that  had  left  its 
paradisaical  abode  there  and  come  down  upon 
earth.  My  poor  dear  father!  What  inrushings 
of  feeling  had  come  down  upon  him  since  he  left 
Manchester!  Ihe  inrushing  which  had  propelled 
his  migration  ;  the  inrushiiig  of  the  sea  into  his 
heart  ;  the  inrushinj/  which  had  carried  him  into 


IN   LOVE  87 

Lord  Frederick's  arms ;  the  inrushing  which  had 
taught  him  how  the  Creator  may  be  praised  in 
Latin ;  and  now  the  inrushing  which  no  man 
may  escape — love,  the  love  of  man  for  woman. 
For  he  was  in  love,  in  love,  this  dear  father  of 
mine,  in  love,  and  the  inrushing  stirred  within 
him  for  the  first  time  lyrics  that  were  not  hymns 
or  psalms  of  praise  to  the  Lord  of  all  things. 
'Twas  a  sublime  moment,  but  that  it  was  love  let 
one  thing  prove,  that  he  who  had  never  before 
distinguished  between  man  and  woman,  that  he 
who  had  never  before  taken  thought  what  he 
should  wear,  at  that  sublime  moment  realised 
that  his  clothes  were  ill-fitting,  that  his  cravat 
was  loosely  tied,  that  his  hair  might  be  arranged 
to  greater  advantage,  that  a  less  clumsy  shoe 
would  add  lustre  to  his  appearance.  If  all  this 
be  not  evidence  of  true  love,  there  is  no  love  in 
all  the  universe. 

The  girl  closed  her  book  and  rose  gravely 
out  of  the  depths  of  the  arm-chair.  Lord 
Frederick  had  hurried  up  to  his  room  to  make 
ready  for  dinner,  and  she  had  heard  nothing  of 
the  presence  of  a  stranger  in  the  house.  But 
this  gentle  stranger  did  not  alarm  her ;  his 
presence    seemed   to  her  a  thing   most   natural. 


88  MY    FATHER    FALLS    IN    LOVE 

and  she  held  out  her  hand.  My  father  still 
kept  his  hands  tightly  clasped  :  the  right  attitude 
in  the  presence  of  angels  is  one  of  adoration. 
Then  the  bright  vivacious  light  in  her  eyes 
changed  and  softened  wonderfully  :  perhaps  she, 
too,  had  become  a  captive.  Remember  that  she 
was  half  Italian,  and  let  me  hasten  to  tell  thee, 
reader,  that  my  father,  like  Jacob  for  Rachel, 
served  seven  years  for  her  without  speaking 
one  word  of  love.  This  girl  was  Mary,  only 
daughter  of  Lord  Frederick  Markham,  called 
by  the  peasants  "la  Baronessina."  She  was 
the  only  child  of  her  father,  and  the  child  that 
had  cost  him  the  life  of  his  wife. 

Lord  Frederick  entered  briskly  upon  this 
dumb  rapture.  He  was  already  late  for  dinner. 
"Been  making  friends?  "he  exclaimed;  "that's 
right!  Mary,  this  is  young  Mr.  Walshe  of 
Manchester,  who  is  coming  to  live  with  us. 
He  is  to  take  the  place  of  a  son  to  me,  and 
therefore  he  is  your  brother.  What  shall  we 
call  you  .-^ "  he  continued,  turning  to  young  Mr. 
Walshe.      "  Shall  we  call  you  Willie  ?  " 

My  father  dreamily  signified  assent,  and  walked 
down  the  broad  marble  staircase  in  a  deep 
dream.      They  sat   at   the   end    of  a    long   table, 


GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT  89 

Lord  Frederick  at  the  head,  Mary  on  his  right 
hand  and  my  father  on  his  left.  But  before 
Lord  Frederick  had  sat  down  he  had  said  in 
simple  reverent  tones,  first  crossing  himself, 
^' Benedic  ?ios,  D online,  et  hcsc  hia  dona  qticB  de 
tua  largitate  sumus  sumphcri,  per  Christum 
Dominum  nostrum"  '*  Amen,"  answered  Mary, 
and  it  was  the  first  word  which  had  crossed 
her  lips.  (Then  Latin  even  had  its  every-day 
and  family  uses  in  this  country,  thought  my 
father,)  The  plainest  fare  was  served,  a  com- 
mon drodo  with  paste,  a  bit  of  lesso  with  carrots 
and  artichokes,  a  roast  chicken  with  salad  and 
beetroot,  a  kind  of  custard  in  cups  known  as 
zabaione,  and  for  dessert  wild  strawberries  and 
Japanese  medlars.  Throughout  the  dinner,  one 
kind  of  wine  only,  and  that  mixed  with  water, 
the  plain  red  wine  which  had  come  from  the 
villa's  vineyards. 

But  my  father  had  lost  both  appetite  and  voice. 
And  to  show  you  that  he  really  was  in  love,  he 
desired  all  the  time  to  shine  by  conversation, 
and  yet  could  get  no  word  across  his  lips. 
There  was  no  sitting  over  wine,  as  at  Hale. 
Lord  Frederick  rose,  and,  once  more  crossing 
himself,  said — 


90  MY    FATHER    FALLS    IN    LOVE 

"Ag'tf/ms  tibi  gr alias,  Omyiipotens  Deus,  pro 
universis  beneficiis  tuis,  qui  vivis  et  regnas  per 
07?t7tia  scBciila  scsculorum.'' 

"Amen,"  said  Miss  Mary. 

''  Et  Fidclitim  a^iuno'''  Lord  Frederick  went 
on,  with  more  fervour  in  his  voice,  ''per  miseri- 
cordia77i  Dei,   requiescant  in  pace'' 

And  "Amen,"  once  again  said  Mary. 

Then  they  went  upstairs  to  the  library,  and 
Lord  Frederick  began  to  entertain  his  young 
guest  by  showing  him  a  portfolio  of  engraved 
portraits.  My  father  looked  over  from  every 
portrait  to  Mary,  and  quickly  back  again  from 
Mary  to  the  portrait.  Somewhere  about  half- 
past  eight,  the  piercing  bell  of  the  Observantin 
Convent  rang  out  and  echoed  among  the  hills. 
"What!"  cried  Lord  Frederick,  springing  to  his 
feet,  "un  ora  della  notte  already!"  Then  he 
and  his  daughter  began  the  rapid  recitation  of 
the  "  De  Profundis  "  in  alternate  verses,  includ- 
ing the  versicles  and  responses  and  the  collect, 
"  F'idelium  Deus."  Lord  Frederick  once  more 
said  "Oremus,"  and  recited  the  following  collect, 
with  some  little  emotion  : — • 

"  Qu(€su7?tus,  Domint\  pro  tua  pietatc  miserere 
a7iimc€  famulcf  tticE    FJisa;  :  et  a  contagiis  niorta- 


A  NIGHT  SCENE  91 

litatis  extitaniy  in  csterncs  salvationis  pm-tem 
restitue.     Per  Christum  Dominum  nostrum. 

R.  Amen. 

V.  Requie7n  ceternam  dona  ei,  Domine. 

R.  Et  lux  perpetua  luceat  ei. 

V.  Requiescat  in  pace. 

R.  Amen. 

And  "  Amen,"  said  my  father,  joining  in  these 
simple  beautiful  family  devotions  for  the  first  time. 

That  evening  he  begged  to  retire  early.  He 
felt  the  need  of  being  alone.  The  emotions  of 
the  day  had  been  great.  Why,  it  was  only  this 
morning  that  he  met  Lord  Frederick,  and  he 
had  already  found  a  home,  a  father,  a  bride, 
and  the  first  beginnings  of  a  religion.  He  put 
back  the  green  persiane,  and  gazed  out  into  the 
night.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  might  have 
reached  the  stars,  so  brightly  near  did  they 
shine ;  the  crescent  moon  seemed  suspended 
among  the  towers  of  Lucca,  and  lit  up  Maria 
Louisa's  aqueduct.  Lights  twinkled  in  the 
great  plain  and  up  the  hills  over  away  to  Monte- 
carlo  San  Salvadore.  The  nightingale  sang, 
the  cicali  chirped,  the  green  frogs  sent  up  their 
peculiar  slow  melodious  gurgle  ;  owls  flew  by 
with   a   noisy   whirr,    calling  loudly.      My  father 


92  MY    FATHER    FALLS    IN    LOVE 

gazed  long  upon  the  wonderful  scene.  He 
knelt  down  in  reverence  before  the  open  window 
and  folded  his  hands.  The  first  words  of  the 
grace  after  meals  came  into  his  mind,  and  he 
repeated  them  with  fervour.  ''Animus  tibi 
gratias  .  .  .  agimus  tibi  gratias,  Omnipotens 
Deus."  What  a  sonorous  roll  they  had,  to  be 
sure,  how  acceptable  they  must  be  in  the  sight 
of  Almighty  God.  And  just  as  he  had  learned 
in  the  Duomo  the  true  nature  of  praise,  so  now 
he  learned  a  real  understanding  of  thanksgiving. 
This,  too,  was  an  act  independent  of  all  words  : 
language  could  give  it  no  force  or  validity ; 
but  since  language  could  give  it  beauty,  let  it 
be  clothed  for  ever  in  the  most  beautiful  lan- 
guage known,  and  that  is  Low  Latin.  He  prayed 
a  long  while  at  the  open  window,  prayed  with 
a  new,  because  a  calmer  ecstasy.  Then  he 
undressed  and  went  to  bed  with  "'agimus  tibi 
gratias,  0??inif)otens  Dejis,''  humming  in  his  brain. 
Suddenly  between  waking  and  sleeping  he  sat 
up  in  bed ;  the  remainder  of  the  grace  had 
come  back  to  him  :  '' pro  universis  bcneficiis  ttiis, 
qui  vivis  et  regnas  per  onmia  scecuUi  scecu- 
lorum.  Ame7i."  Then  he  turned  over  and 
fell  asleep  very  sweetly  and   peacefully. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT   AND    IS    APPOINTED 

LIBRARIAN 

My  father  rose  at  six  next  day  mightily  refreshed 
in  body  and  spirit,  and  with  an  equable  un- 
ruffled peace  upon  him  that  he  had  never  known 
before.  He  threw  wide  the  sun-shutters  and 
looked  out  into  the  beautiful  wild  garden  :  the 
smell  of  the  jessamine  filled  the  air ;  the  green 
woods  beyond  the  garden  called  to  him  to 
come  ;  the  bell  of  the  Observantin  Convent  was 
ringing  the  peremptory  last  summons  for  the  six 
o'clock  mass.  He  dressed  hastily  and  shortened 
his  bedside  prayers  that  he  might  go  out  and 
pray  among  the  arbutus  and  myrtle.  He  passed 
through  the  three  garden  terraces,  climbed  up 
the  orchard,  and  when  he  got  a  little  way  up 
the  path  in  the  wood  he  turned  aside  a  few 
yards,  and  kneeling  down  among  the  juniper 
bushes  and  crushing  out  the  odour  of  the  thyme 
with  his  knees,  he  looked  over  towards  the  city 
of  Lucca  and  began  to  pray.     He  forgot  where 


93 


94    MY  FATHER  TURNS  STUDENT 

he  was  and  stretched  out  his  arms  in  an  ecstasy 
of  joy  ;  he  forgot  that  he  was  near  the  pathway 
and  cried  out  aloud ;  for  he  had  recalled  the 
Latin  prayer  of  last  night,  and  it  welled  up 
in  his  heart  again:  '' Agimus  iibi  gratias  .  .  • 
agimns  tibi  gratias,  Ojnnipotens  Deus^  He  re- 
peated it  over  and  over  again,  and  each  time 
found  in  it  a  wonderful  relish  and  consolation. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  known 
how  to  thank  God  before.  The  convent  bell 
rang  out  sharply  three  times.  He  paused. 
Again  it  rang  out  three  times.  It  was  the 
Elevation  bell.  I\Iy  father  knew  nothing  of  its 
significance,  but  it  seemed  like  a  call  to  prayer, 
and  instinctively  turning  towards  the  church, 
he  fell  upon  his  face,  adoring  God  in  spirit 
and  in  truth. 

When  he  raised  his  eyes  from  the  ground  it 
was  to  leap  hastily  to  his  feet.  There  had 
been  a  spectator  of  his  prayer  and  adoration, 
and  of  all  spectators  the  one  most  calculated 
to  astonish  a  young  gentleman  who  had  never 
until  now  been  outside  Manchester.  The  spec- 
tator wore  a  deep  brown  habit,  a  white  knotted 
cord  was  round  his  waist,  and  sandals  were 
upon  his  bare  feet.      He  was  very  old,  the  fore- 


THE   PADRE  GUARDIANO  95 

head  was  a  mass  of  wrinkles,  and  the  long  pro- 
truding chin  was  ploughed  with  deep  furrows ; 
the  old  head  was  finely  poised  upon  a  pair  of 
bowed  shoulders,  the  white  corona  shone  bright 
against  a  deep  olive  complexion.  The  old  spec- 
tator was  one  of  the  friars  from  the  Observantin 
Convent — no  less  a  person,  in  fact,  than  the 
Padre  Guardiano  himself.  There  was  a  settled 
look  of  benignity  in  the  face  that  reassured  my 
father,  a  look  too  that  spoke  of  a  familiar  ex- 
perimental knowledge  of  the  science  of  prayer. 

"  Buon  giorno,  signorino,"  he  said,  following 
up  his  greeting  with  a  melodious  speech,  of 
which  my  father  understood  not  a  word.  But 
the  friar  pointed  to  the  ground  below,  he  clasped 
his  hands,  he  pointed  to  the  heavens  above,  and 
my  father  supposes  he  must  have  been  saying 
that  God's  own  blue-vaulted  temple  was  a  very 
good  place  to  pray  in.  My  father  made  known 
by  signs  and  nods  that  he  could  not  communi- 
cate with  him,  and  then  the  old  friar  laid  a 
kindly  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  said  in  the 
most  natural  way  in  the  world — 

"  Potesne  loqui  Latine  ?  " 

The  blood  flew  into  my  father's  face  in  his 
excitement.     Then  in  this  country  they  not  only 


96  MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT 

praise  God  in  Latin,  and  thank  Him  for  His 
mercies  in  Latin,  but  they  even  speak  to  one 
another  in  Latin,  He  stuttered  and  stammered. 
How  easily  he  could  have  given  this  old  friar 
points  upon  points  in  a  classical  bout,  but  when 
he  came  to  try  and  fit  his  Latin  to  the  needs 
of  modern  speech  it  clean  went  out  of  his  head. 
What  may  be  the  Latin  for  "  yes,"  he  wondered  ? 
and  he  tried  etiani ;  but  as  he  called  it  eeshant, 
the  friar  must  have  divined  his  answer  from  his 
manner  and  not  from  his  speech. 

"  Bene  est,'  he  answered.  "  Vado  ad  villam 
Domini  Frcderici  ad  dicendam  fnissam.  Veni 
mecuvt,  fili :  ibi,  coram  Domino  Nostro  fcsu 
Ckristo,  potes  finirc  07'ationcs  fiias." 

My  father  turned  and  walked  with  him,  but 
without  having  comprehended  the  unclassical 
word  "  missa."  T^he  pronunciation,  too,  was 
a  difficulty.  When  they  reached  the  second 
garden  terrace  they  found  Lord  Frederick  there, 
superintending  the  catching  of  some  carp,  for 
it  was  a  Friday.  He  advanced  to  meet  them 
with  a  twinkle  of  amusement  in  his  eyes. 
"Well,  young  gentleman,"  he  said,  "you're  up 
betimes.  Good  morning!  Where  have  you 
been }  " 


THE    FRIAR'S    EXCITEMENT  97 

But  the  Father  Guardian  was  bubbling  over 
with  speech  which  he  could  not  contain.  He 
clasped  his  hands  in  the  action  of  prayer,  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  bowed  his  old 
knees,  he  beat  his  breast  and  extended  his 
arms  like  one  in  an  ecstasy,  talking  very  volubly 
the  while,  and  many  times  repeating  "  aginius 
tibi  gratias!'  It  was  only  too  evident  that  he 
was  recounting  all  he  had  seen  among  the 
arbutus  and  juniper  bushes.  My  father  blushed 
as  scarlet  as  an  arbutus  berry.  Lord  Frederick 
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder  in  his  kindly  fashion 
and  said  something  to  the  old  friar  that  threw 
him  into  a  still  greater  heat  of  excitement.  My 
father  learnt  what  it  was  afterwards.  "  Ma 
impossibile !  He  not  a  Catholic!  Ma  e  impos- 
sibile !  Why,  I  saw  him  in  an  ecstasy  !  I  heard 
him  pray  in  Latin  I  I  saw  him  pray  over  to- 
wards the  Volto  Santo !  I  saw  him  turn  round 
and  fall  down  in  adoration  when  the  Elevation 
bell  rang !  It  is  impossible  that  he  should  not 
be  a  Catholic  ! " 

"  Come,  come,  Padre  Eliseo,"  said  Lord 
Frederick,  **  it  is  two  minutes  to  seven.  You, 
young  gentleman,  must  amuse  yourself  for  half 
an  hour ;  then  you  shall  have  some  breakfast." 

G 


98  MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT 

"  But  might  I  not  come  to  the  religious  ser- 
vice ? "  asked  my  father,  using  the  language  of 
Searle  House  and  Hale. 

"  As  you  please,  young  sir,"  replied  Lord 
Frederick  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

The  chapel  was  a  little  building  distinct  from 
the  villa,  placed  in  the  thickest  part  of  the 
garden  "  bosco."  A  marble  cross  surmounted 
the  apex ;  a  bkick  wooden  cross  was  affixed  to 
the  green  wooden  door.  A  light  in  the  little 
sanctuary,  a  silken  veil  before  the  tabernacle, 
most  of  all  the  little  glass  vessel  in  which  the 
priest  washes  his  fingers  when  giving  com- 
munion out  of  the  Mass,  showed  that  Lord 
Frederick  enjoyed  the  awful  and  anxious  pri- 
vilege of  reserving  the  Blessed  Sacrament. 
Here  every  day,  except  on  Sundays,  when  he 
made  a  point  of  attending  tht:  parish  church, 
Mass  was  said  by  one:  nf  tiu:  Franciscan  fathers 
from  Monte  Santa  Maria.  The  servants  of  the 
villa,  the  two  gardeners,  and  a  handfiil  of  C07i- 
iadini  were  already  assemblrd  ;  Miss  Mary  was 
kneeling  al  the  front  bench  devoutly  reading 
out  of  a  tliimjjy  wt:ll-ihumbed  "Garden  of  the 
Soul."  Lord  I'rctderick  knck  down  beside  her, 
and  my  father  knelt  beside  him.       I  lie  simj)licity 


EARLY    MORNING    MASS  99 

of  the  surroundings,  the  humble  character  of  the 
congregation,  the  seclusion  of  the  little  chapel, 
suggested  a   gathering   of  primitive    Christians. 
This  was  the  first  time  that  my  father  had  ever 
heard  Mass,  and  he  knew  nothing  of  its  signifi- 
cation.    The  serving-boy  was  rapid  and  inatten- 
tive,  and  played   with   the  sacring-bell.      Padre 
Eliseo  cleared  his  throat  and  spat  long  distances 
before  he  ascended  the  altar  steps.     The  new- 
comer from  Manchester  could  not  well  see  how 
such  a  service   might  satisfy  mystical  devotion  ; 
but  he  caught  the  solemn  sound  of  Latin  (and 
even  of  Greek),  which  went  to  his  heart,  and  he 
could  not  but  be   impressed  by  the  fact  that  a 
handful  of  illiterate  workers  in  the  fields  seemed 
to  think  it  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
to  kneel    behind  a  man   who    had   his   back  to 
them  all  the  time,  and  that  they  followed  with 
obvious  devotion  a  service  in  a  language  which  it 
is  the  custom  to  call  "dead."     He  was  impressed, 
too,  by  the  silence  at  the  two  Elevations,  and  im- 
pressed most  of  all,  perhaps,  when  Padre  Eliseo, 
after  a  long  silence,  said  in  a  loud  voice,  '''Nobis 
quoque  peccatoribusy     Dimly  he  realised  that  this 
service,  too,  was  an  "act,"  though  he  had  not  the 
faintest  conception  of  its  nature  or  grandeur. 


100        MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT 

Lord  F'rederick,  his  daughter,  and  his  new- 
made  son  then  adjourned  to  breakfast  in  the 
dining-room.  Padre  Eliseo  joined  them  after 
he  had  made  his  thanksgiving.  Black  coffee 
and  bread  was  the  usual  staple  breakfast  of  this 
frugal  family,  but  to-day  there  was  also  butter 
and  honey  and  milk,  in  case  the  young  gentleman 
fresh  come  from  Manchester  should  need  the 
support  of  such  delicacies.  Padre  Eliseo  had 
got  back  to  the  subject  uppermost  in  his  mind  : 
"Ma  e  impossibile !  He  not  a  Catholic!  Ma 
le  dico  che " 

Breakfast  was  over  and  done  in  this  frugal 
household  before  eight  o'clock.  From  eight  to 
twelve  Lord  P'rederick  usually  kept  his  study. 
The  afternoon  he  devoted  to  his  podcri,  and  the 
evenings  to  his  daughter  and  to  lighter  reading. 
At  nine  o'clock  he  had  prayers,  and  by  eleven 
he  was  invariably  in  bed.  On  this  particular 
morning  he  took  my  father  with  him  into  his 
study,  and  they  fell  to  talking  about  plans. 

My  father  was  the  first  to  speak ;  he  was 
coming  out  of  his  enchanting  dream.  "  I  cannot, 
sir,"  he  said,  hotly  but  respectfully,  "  I  cannot 
.stay  with  you  in  this  way.  It  is  not  right  that 
I    should   be  a  charge  upon   you.      I    must  go  to 


THE    NEW    LIBRARIAN  loi 

Rome  in  search  of  work.     I  must  maintain  my- 
self.     I  must  try " 

"  Softly !  softly !  my  boy,"  interrupted  Lord 
Frederick.  "  Now  let  me  speak,  and  don't 
attempt  to  interrupt  until  I  have  finished.  If 
it's  work  you  want,  I've  plenty  for  you,  and  hard 
work  too.  Look  round  at  this  goodly  array  of 
books.  There  must  be  nearly  twenty  thousand 
distributed  about  the  house,  and  I  haven't  the 
shred  of  a  catalogue.  I  appoint  you  my  librarian 
if  you'll  accept  the  modest  post,  and  your  first 
business  will  be  to  catalogue  the  library.  What 
salary  were  you  getting  in  business  ?  What !  as 
much  as  ^^^25  a  year!  Well,  I  make  you  the 
tempting  offer  of  ^50.  What  say  you  to  that  ? 
Good !  Then  you're  my  librarian,  but  you've  got 
to  be  my  son  too,  and  it  is  a  father's  business  to 
see  to  his  son's  education.  You've  read  a  lot  for 
your  age,  but  let  me  use  a  father's  privilege  of 
plain  speech  and  tell  you  that  you  are  almost 
wholly  without  real  education  and  entirely  with- 
out training.  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  my 
dear  boy,  snatched  away  as  you  were  at  a  tender 
age  from  the  only  chances  you  had.  And,  God 
knows,  you  made  the  most  of  these.  Thank 
Heaven,   your  Latin  is  good,  and  you  are  well 


102        MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT 

grounded  in  the  principal  classics.  That  is 
much,  but  what  is  even  that  without  balance  of 
mind  and  a  sense  of  proportion  and  fitness  ? 
Now,  my  son,  you've  got  to  humble  yourself,  to 
turn  boy  again,  and  to  go  to  school.  For  the 
present,  content  yourself  with  two  hours  cata- 
loguing a  day.  I  only  want  you  to  take  up  three 
subjects  of  education  at  present :  logic,  a  stiff 
course  of  it :  that  will  brace  your  mind  and  teach 
you  to  think  accurately  ;  French  :  that  will  teach 
you  neatness  of  expression,  help  you  also  in 
arriving  at  accuracy  of  thought,  and  show  you 
that  there  is  a  way  of  saying  clearly  even  the 
most  difficult  things  ;  and  Italian,  which  you 
will  need  to  communicate  with  those  about  you 
(though  to  be  sure  you  will  find  that  it  has 
many  other  delights).  Now  do  you  agree  to 
all  this.?" 

What  could  my  father  do  but  agree  to  pro- 
posals made  with  so  much  fatherly  affection,  and 
which  chimed  so  perfectly  with  his  own  inclina- 
tions ••* 

"  Very  good,  then,"  continued  Lord  Frederick. 
"  But  I  can'l  be  harbouring  runaway  young 
gentlemen  under  age  withouL  the  consent  of  their 
parents.     Write  at   once   and    tell    your    mother 


RELIGIOUS    PRACTICES  103 

where  you  are  and  what  you  propose  to  do. 
And  now,  my  dear  boy,"  he  went  on  in  more 
earnest  tones,  *'  there  is  but  one  thing  left  to  say, 
and  then  all  our  arrangements  will  be  complete. 
You  will  have  seen  that  we  are  people  with  a 
different  religious  belief  to  the  belief  you  have 
been  brought  up  in  ;  perhaps  you  will  already 
have  seen  that  the  practices  of  this  religion  enter 
into  our  lives  at  all  hours  of  the  working  day.  I 
would  not  for  worlds  have  you,  out  of  any  con- 
sideration for  me,  take  part  in  these  practices. 
If  it  please  you  to  assist  at  our  morning  Mass; 
if  you  care  to  say  'Amen'  to  our  grace  at 
meals  ;  if  it  interest  you  to  be  present  at  our 
evening  Rosary — well  and  good.  No  one  will 
say  you  nay.  And  if  you  prefer  to  be  absent 
from  Mass  and  Rosary  and  to  be  silent  at  grace, 
then  likewise  well  and  good.  No  one  will  re- 
proach you.  I  desire  that  you  should  be,  and 
that  you  should  feel,  utterly  and  entirely  free. 
It  would  grieve  and  not  please  me,  were  you  to 
pay  one  single  exterior  act  of  devotion  to  the 
practices  of  our  holy  religion  out  of  any  regard 
for  me.  I  will  not  hide  from  you  that  the  dearest 
wish  of  my  heart,  as  of  every  Catholic  heart,  is 
to  see  all  the  human  race  brought  to  the  perfect 


I04        MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT 

knowledge  of  God's  entire  truth.  Is  it  not  a 
right,  a  natural  instinct  ?  Does  not  the  Angli- 
can, the  Wesleyan,  the  Lutheran,  the  Plymouth 
Brother,  who  believes  that  he  has  the  whole 
truth,  seek  to  brine  that  truth  home  to  the  hearts 
of  all  men?  And  rightly.  Nor  will  1  hide  from 
you  that  I  believe  Almighty  God  has  sealed  you 
to  Himself.  In  a  life  that  is  three  times  as  long 
as  your  own,  I  cannot  help  having  had  some 
experience  of  the  merciful  and  marvellous  ways 
of  God.  Have  you  not  told  me  all  the  story  of 
your  life,  and  in  that  story  I  read  the  story  of  a 
soul  that  has  ever  anxiously  sought,  and  with 
single  mind  striven  to  find,  the  just  judgments  of 
the  hidden  God.  But  my  only  weapon  shall  be 
prayer  ;  not  a  soul  will  si)eak  to  you  of  religion 
unless  you  are  the  first  to  speak.  I  will  pray  for 
you.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  things,  it  is  inevit- 
able, but  a  great  campaign  of  prayer  will  be 
organised  against  you,"  he  continued,  smiling. 
"My  daughter  will  pray  for  you;  Padre  Eliseo 
(who,  by  the  way,  will  have  it  that  you  already 
are  a  Catholic),  he  and  his  Community  will 
assuredly  pray  for  you  ;  and  so  will  the  poor 
workers  on  this  estate,  should  they  ever  come 
to    realise    that    you    are    not    a   Catholic.      And 


FRIDAY    FARE  105 

now,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  done  with  sermon- 
ising-. May  God  bless  you,  and  guide  you, 
and  prevent  you  in  all  your  doings  .  .  .  This," 
he  continued,  pointing  to  the  south  wall,  "  is  my 
Patristic  library.  I  am  old-fashioned,  and  it  is 
my  favourite.  So  start  first  of  all  on  the  cata- 
loguing of  this  section." 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  mention  one  other  little 
incident  in  connection  with  "arrangements,"  and 
then  I  shall  have  done  with  the  subject.  It  was 
Friday,  as  I  have  said,  and  there  was  macaroni 
in  butter  and  cheese  ;  ,  there  were  eggs  in  a 
tomato  sauce  ;  there  was  boiled  carp  ;  and  for  the 
young  gentleman  from  Manchester  there  was  a 
fillet  and  fried  potatoes.  My  father  ate  the  meat 
under  protest,  and  with  the  proviso  that  hence- 
forth he  should  in  all  things  conform  to  the  ways 
of  the  household.  And  I  may  add  that  he  was 
daily  present  at  Mass;  that  he  said  "  Amen"  at 
grace ;  that  he  joined  in  the  "  Angelus  "  and  the 
"  De  Profundis ; "  and  that  he  took  part  in  the 
nightly  Rosary,  though  he  found  no  savour  in 
it.  It  took  him  some  time  to  find  out  that  the 
language  of  love  is  a  language  of  repetition. 

And  now  as  to  the  scheme  of  education.  And 
first  as  to  Italian.     There  was  an  old  pensioner 


io6        MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT 

living  in  a  cottage  hard  by  the  villa,  who  had 
taught  in  the  Duke  of  Lucca's  household,  and 
was  pensioned  off  when  the  Duchy  was  made 
over  to  Tuscany  in  1847.  He  was  my  father's 
tutor  in  Tuscan.  Better  tutors  still,  perhaps, 
were  the  peasants  of  the  poderi,  who,  I  suspect, 
must  have  worshipped  this  simpafico  young  gen- 
tleman of  affable  manners  and  large  heart.  As 
the  reader  will  have  seen,  he  was  a  lad  of  quick 
parts,  and  under  such  favourable  circumstances 
the  acquisition  of  the  Tuscan  tongue  came  to  him 
speedily,  pleasantly,  and  unconsciously. 

As  to  French,  there  was  Miss  Mary's  "Made- 
moiselle," whom  I  have  not  yet  mentioned, 
because  she  was  absent  from  the  villa,  called 
to  Tours  upon  the  death  of  her  mother.  My 
father,  I  have  already  mentioned,  had  acquired 
a  working  knowledge  of  French  from  Herr  and 
Monsieur  Ebermann  at  Searle  House,  but  that 
knowledge  had  grown  over  -  rusty  among  the 
samples  and  invoices  of  the  counting-house.  He 
never  spoke  French  quite  comfortably,  but  he 
wrote  it  correctly  and  elegantly,  and  the  reading 
of  good  books  in  French  was  ever  one  of  his 
keenest  delights.  (St.  Francis  of  Sales,  Fenelon, 
Corneille,    and    the    "  Pen.sees "    of   Pascal    were 


A    PROFESSOR    OF    LOGIC  107 

among  his  favourites,  while — an  odd  taste  it 
may  seem  in  one  of  his  bent — he  delighted  in 
the  "  Maximes "  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  which 
he  was  wont  to  characterise  as  one  of  the  pro- 
foundest  examinations  of  the  human  heart.  To 
the  French  writer,  or  rather  writer  in  French, 
who  influenced  him  most  of  all,  the  Count  de 
Maistre,  I  ought  to  devote  a  whole  chapter.) 

Then  as  to  the  all-important  subject  of  logic. 
He  went  down  three  days  in  the  week  to  Lucca 
to  the  Dominican  Convent  of  San  Romano,  to 
receive  his  lessons  from  an  acute  young  friar 
preacher,  who  carried  the  proud  letters  S.T.L. 
after  his  name.  This  young  friar.  Padre  Rai- 
mondo  Beltrami,  to  give  him  his  name  (he  is  dead, 
alas !),  was  endowed  with  a  subtlety  of  intelligence 
peculiar  in  its  kind  to  the  Catholic  Church,  and 
even  more  peculiar  to  the  Order  which  has  pro- 
duced the  Angelic  Doctor.  Padre  Raimondo 
could  split  up  the  narrowest  idea  into  a  surpris- 
ing number  of  component  parts.  He  found  a 
distinguo  quoad  for  almost  every  proposition, 
and  he  uttered  that  word  distmguo  with  a  gusto 
and  relish  that  seemed  to  add  a  force  to  all  his 
arguments.  My  father  in  one  thing  may  be 
said  to  have  been  like  Mr.  Walter  Shandy,  and 


io8        MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT 

that  was  in  his  careful  reeard  for  the  viinutice 
of  philosophy.  "  Knowledge,  like  matter,  Mr. 
Shandy  would  affirm,  was  divisible  in  infinitum, 
that  the  grains  and  scruples  were  as  much  a  part 
of  it  as  the  orravitation  of  the  whole  world.      In 

o 

a  word,  he  would  say  error  was  error,  no  matter 
where  it  fell ;  whether  in  a  fraction  or  a  pound, 
'twas  alike  fatal  to  truth  ;  and  she  was  kept  down 
at  the  bottom  of  her  well  as  inevitably  by  a  mis- 
take in  the  dust  of  a  butterlly's  wing,  as  in  the 
disk  of  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  all  the  stars  of 
heaven  put  together."  ^ 

Goudin  was  the  Manual  he  used.  When  I 
came  to  do  my  course  of  logic  Goudin  was 
already  supplanted  by  Cardinal  Zigliara  ;  but  I 
remember  that  we  used  to  take  our  "  Regulae 
Syllogismi  "  from  Goudin  as  a  thing  which  was 
final  and  could  not  be  improved  upon.  And 
note  that  these  lessons  in  logic  were  done  from 
beginning  to  end — examples,  definiLions,  chit- 
chat and  all — in  Low  Latin.  If  the  pupil,  in 
a  quandary,  dropped  into  broken  Tuscan  or  im- 
perfect French,  he  was  immediately  pulled  up 
and  rapped  over  the  knuckles.  In  iliis  way 
my  father   laid   that   foundation  of  easy  conver- 

'  "  Tristram  Shandy,"  vol.  ii.  chap.  xix. 


THE    ELEMENTS    OF    LOGIC  109 

satlonal  Latin  for  which  he  was  afterwards 
distinguished,  and  which  helped  him,  both  in 
correspondence  and  speech,  to  communicate  with 
German,  Portuguese,  and  Spanish  ecclesiastics. 
How  eagerly  he  plunged  into  the  bracing  science 
of  logic !  The  "  prolegomena  "  disheartened  and 
bewildered  him  a  bit.  He  woke  up  with  a 
burst  of  understanding  when  he  came  to  the 
"categories"  or  essential  "genera"  which  may- 
be predicated  of  a  given  thing.  He  began  to 
divine  the  science  of  allocation  or  arrangement, 
and  his  mind  took  to  constructing  instead  of 
dissecting.  He  learned  that  perception  was  an 
intuitive  act  of  the  mind,  which,  when  formu- 
lated within  the  mind,  became  an  affirmative  or 
negative  "judgment,"  and  when  put  into  words 
became  an  affirmative  or  negative  "  proposi- 
tion." Another  act  of  the  mind  was  "  ratiocina- 
tion," which  was  a  mental  comparison  of  several 
of  those  acts  of  the  mind  called  "judgments," 
and  "  ratiocination  "  when  formed  in  words  be- 
came "  argumentation  "  (argumentatio).  There 
were  seven  kinds  of  "argumentatio,"  but  the 
divinest  kind  of  all  was  the  syllogism,  which 
my  father  never  moved  a  step  without  employ- 
ing   in    all    and    sundry    matters.       'Twas    the 


no   MY  FATHER  TURNS  STUDENT 

science  of  logic,  he  was  wont  to  say,  that  kept 
the  world  upon  its  axis  and  a  man's  head  upon 
his  shoulders.  In  fact,  it  was  the  beginning 
and  end  of  wisdom  and  common  sense.  It 
was,  he  would  say,  the  want  of  logic  or  the  in- 
ability to  draw  the  right  conclusions  from  pro- 
positions that  caused  the  Fall  of  Man,  the 
Deluge,  the  Destruction  of  Jerusalem,  the  Dis- 
ruption of  the  Eastern  Empire,  the  Schism  of 
the  Oriental  Churches,  the  Protestant  Revolt, 
the  Puritan  Regime,  the  Whig  Revolution,  and 
the  Cataclysm  of  1789. 

Though  never  deep  in  science,  my  father 
could  prove  to  you  by  the  rule  of  the  "Con- 
tradictories "  that  the  earth,  although  revolving 
on  its  axis,  only  showed  one  face  to  the  sun. 
And  on  this  wise :  if  the  earth  did  not  move 
on  its  axis  it  would  show  both  sides  to  the 
sun  ;  that  is  obvious.  But  the  earth  does  the 
"contradictory"  to  not  moving  on  its  axis,  there- 
fore it  does  the  opposite,  and  only  shows  one 
side  to  the  sun.  Perfectly  sound  and  very 
useful  reasoning,  and  he  would  add  tliat  modern 
men  of  science  lost  half  their  usefulness  and 
wasted  half  their  energies  through  not  having 
been   properly   grounded   in   logic. 


FIRST    PRINCIPLES  iii 

From  logic  he  gathered  a  few  first  principles 
which  were  as  the  light  of  his  eyes  at  all  times. 
They  may  sound  exceedingly  elemental,  yet  I 
find  them — and  especially  Nos.  3,  4,  and  5 — 
most  constantly  denied  or  belied  by  the  modern 
world  : — 

1.  The  same  thing  cannot  be  and  not  be  at 
the  same  time. 

2.  What  can  be  predicated  of  the  whole  may 
be  predicated  of  its  parts. 

3.  You  cannot  find  in  the  conclusion  that 
which  does  not  exist   in  the  premises. 

4.  Contradictories  cannot  be  both  true  and 
both  false. 

5.  Yet  contraries  can  be  both  false,  though 
never  both  true. 

Here  is  a  little  outburst  in  his  diary  written 
in  1899  just  before  his  death.  "Alas!"  he 
says,  "  common-sense  methods  and  common- 
sense  philosophy  seem  daily  on  the  decline. 
There  is  less  vital  power  of  thought  now-a-days, 
and  next  to  no  exactitude ;  men  fritter  away 
time  and  intellectual  energy  in  reading  ephe- 
meral, unsubstantial,  loose  -  thinking  moderns, 
who  shed  nebulosity  as  they  go.  How  much 
of  the  belief  around  us  is  founded  on  the  prin- 


112        MY    FATHER    TURNS    STUDENT 

ciple  that  the  same  thing  can  be  and  not  be  at 
the  same  time,  that  a  little  less  than  the  whole 
is  as  good  as  the  whole,  that  contradictories 
may  both  be  true  ;  nay,  have  not  people  of  late 
been  affirming  that  there  is  an  Anno  Domini 
Zero,  and  that  a  series  of  i  to  lOO  may  end 
with  99.  Three  centuries  of  separation  from 
the  exact  thought  and  common-sense  methods 
of  Catholicism  is  beginning  to  tell  upon  the 
European  intellect.  IVIcn  have  need  to  return 
for  an  intellectual  bracing  to  some  of  the  giants 
of  the  past  with  their  robust  thought,  clear 
methods,  and  keen  sense  of  the  consequences 
of  a  syllogism.  I  have  just  been  reading  a 
chapter  by  one  of  those  giants.  It  is  that 
familiar  letter  which  the  Count  de  Maistre  wrote 
to  a  'dame  Protestante  '  on  the  time-honoured 
maxim,  '  Qu'un  honnete  homme  ne  change 
jamais  de  religion.'  What  lucidity  of  thought, 
what  remorseless,  irrefraofable  reasoninir !  It 
puts  the  point  as  between  Catholics  and  non- 
Catholics  in  a  nutshell — one  o{  the  characte- 
ristic gifts  of  common  sense.  How  obvious, 
we  exclaim,  as  we  follow  the  argument ;  yes, 
but  how  seldom  in  argument  do  we  find  the 
Catholic   drivinc^    home    the    fact    that    the    non- 


ARGUMENT    OF    COUNT    DE    MAISTRE      113 

Catholic  Christian  does  not  deny  his  faith  by 
becoming  a  Catholic  ;  that  he  continues  to  be- 
lieve all  he  used  to  believe  plus  some  further 
doctrines ;  that  he  has  added  to  his  faith,  not 
changed  it.  There  is  nothing  new  in  all  this, 
we  again  exclaim.  No,  there  is  nothing  new  ; 
but  it  is  just  the  old  and  the  obvious  that  need, 
in  these  days,  the  elucidation  of  genius,  and 
the  great  Count  has  illustrated  this  old  point 
with  a  clearness  and  precision  that  should  pene- 
trate the  vapours  of  the  cloudiest  brain." 

But  I  must  draw  rein.  I  could  continue  for 
ever  with  instances  of  my  father's  fondness  of 
nice  reasoning,  but  there  is  no  need  to  try  the 
reader's  patience ;  the  subject  will  become  evi- 
dent enough  as  this  Memoir  proceeds. 


H 


CHAPTER    VIII 

MY    FATHER    BECOMES    ACQUAINTED  WITH 
HERALDRY 

Life  moved  along-  tranquilly  at  the  Villa  Fabriani. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  my  father  came 
under  humane  and  civilising  influences.  Intel- 
lectual intercourse  with  Lord  Frederick,  with 
ecclesiastics  and  professors  from  the  town,  his 
friends ;  the  new  savour  of  what  I  might  call 
domestic  archaeology  and  history  derived  from 
contact  with  the  old  patrician  families  of  Lucca  ; 
the  secret  worship  of  Mary  Markham  ;  the  de- 
monstrative kindness  of  Baldassare,  and  all  the 
servants,  and  all  the  coniadini;  the  cheery  friend- 
ship of  the /r^// up  at  Monte  Santa  Maria;  the 
green  woods,  the  beneficent  heat,  the  still  starry 
beautiful  nights  ;  the  sights  of  an  ancient  city, 
whose  roots  stretch  deep  down  into  an  illustrious 
past,  and  the  knowledge  of  her  noble  history  ; 
and  then  the  religious  shrines  at  every  turn,  the 
bells  which  twenty  times  a  day  rang  out  to 
proclaim    man's   recognition   of  iiis    Creator,    the 


'M 


TYRRHENIAN    BATHING  115 

constant  services  of  praise  and  prayer,  the  con- 
stant religious  practices,  which  exalted  some  days 
above  Sundays  and  sanctified  all  working  days  : 
all  these  things  worked  powerfully  in  his  soul 
and  brought  him  a  sense  of  continuous  peace 
which  he  had  never  known  before. 

I  have  said  that  he  arrived  at  the  Villa  Fabriani 
in  the  early  days  of  May  1855.  After  two  and 
a  half  months  reading,  study,  and  cataloguing 
(which  he  enjoyed  immensely,  picking  up  great 
stores  of  knowledge  by  the  way),  there  was  an 
adjournment  to  a  small  villa  below  Antignano 
for  sea-bathing.  He  had  spent  some  unhappy 
weeks  at  New  Brighton  and  Rhyll.  These 
were  the  only  sea-bathing  places  he  knew,  but, 
being  in  misery  at  the  time  or  morbidly  absorbed 
in  books,  he  had  never  learned  to  swim.  The 
villa  at  Antignano  had  its  own  baracca,  or 
bathing-place,  and  in  the  buoyant  Tyrrhenian 
waters  he  found  it  impossible  to  sink,  and  in  a 
fortnight  could  swim  out  as  far  as  Lord  Frederick 
himself. 

But  all  the  while  he  was  longing  to  be  back 
at  the  villa  and  in  the  library,  longing  above 
all  to  be  back  at  his  logic.  He  had  already 
tasted  of  the  sweets  of  the  syllogism  ;    the  joys 


ii6     ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    HERALDRY 

of  applied  logic  awaited  him  at  his  return. 
There  is  a  curious  climatic  fact  in  Italy.  If  one 
gets  but  a  few  feet  above  the  sea-level,  the  air 
at  once  undergoes  a  surprising  change.  In  the 
year  1855,  of  which  I  am  writing,  no  one  thought 
of  going  to  those  high  Apennine  resorts  which 
have  since  become  so  fashionable.  The  Tuscan 
instinctively  went  to  the  nearest  hill  beyond 
the  plain  on  which  he  lived,  irrespective  of  its 
altitude.  Thus  the  Livornesi  were  content  with 
the  close-lying  Montenero ;  the  Pisans  never 
went  beyond  Bagni  San  Giuliano  ;  the  Lucchesi 
were  well  satisfied  with  the  beautiful  hills  round 
about  the  city,  or  the  Bagni  di  Lucca  (quite 
a  t()rmidable  mouniain  rcsorl,  Soo  feet);  the 
Florentines  flitted  to  the  hills  which  surround 
their  enchanting  city.  What  a  change  now-a- 
days,  when  Italians  think  that  they  must  breathe 
the  air  of  3000  or  4000  feet  to  keep  sane  and 
sound.  Lord  Frederick  sought  no  other  moun- 
tain resort  than  the  Villa  l'"abriani  (200  feet)  ; 
so  my  father  was  glad  to  find  himself  back  there 
at  the  beginning  of  Sei)tember. 

He  set  to  at  once  upon  French  and  Tuscan 
again,  but  logic  he  could  not  recommence  be- 
cause Padre  Raimondo  was  absent  until  October. 


A    FIRST    GLIMPSE    OF    HERALDRY      117 

The  cataloguing  of  the  Patristic  section  of  the 
library  had  been  finished  before  going  to  the 
seaside.  On  their  return  Lord  Frederick  set 
him  upon  cataloguing  the  rich  heraldic  section. 
Heraldry !  he  did  not  even  know  what  it  was. 
If  he  had  ever  seen  coats-of-arms  upon  build- 
ings, or  carriages,  or  engravings,  he  had  not 
given  them  a  thought,  but,  after  the  manner  of 
men,  had  looked  upon  them  as  a  mere  decora- 
tive adjunct.  He  had,  then,  absolutely  not  the 
faintest  notion  what  it  meant  to  catalogue 
heraldic  books  when,  on  the  3rd  September 
1855,  he  took  down  Hugh  Clark's  "Introduc- 
tion "  to  make  the  first  entry,  because  the  idea  of 
an  "introduction"  had  an  easy  sound  about  it. 
He  skipped  the  introduction  to  the  "Intro- 
duction," and  glanced  at  Table  I.  :  points  of 
the  Escutcheon.  At  once  he  detected  those 
elements  of  finality  and  completeness  which 
always  had  a  fascination  for  a  mind  that  from 
infancy  had  thirsted  for  that  finality  which  is 
surely  the  natural  food  of  the  human  mind. 
Yes ;  here  was  a  thing  called  an  escutcheon, 
a  mathematical  diagram,  and  it  was  divided 
into  all  the  possible  points  of  which  it  could 
possibly  admit.      He  passed  on  to  tinctures  and 


ii8     ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    HERALDRY 

furs,  and  found,  if  not  all  the  metals  and  colours 
in  existence,  yet  all  that  were  admitted  by  this 
science.  Finality  again,  and  finality  without 
explanation  or  apology.  Then  he  came  to  the 
partition  lines  and  more  finality.  Just  as  he 
always  had,  with  that  unscientific  mind  of  his, 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  remembering  whether  it 
was  the  east  the  sun  set  in  or  the  west,  so  with 
regard  to  the  direction  of  a  thing  he  always 
had  to  pause  and  consider  whether  it  was 
perpendicular  he  meant  or  horizontal.  Away 
for  ever  with  such  initial  difficulties :  his  per- 
pendicular became  "  per  pale  ;  "  his  horizontal 
"per  fess ; "  a  conjunction  of  the  two,  "per 
cross;"  oblique  became  "per  bend"  or  "per 
bend  sinister,"  according  to  position ;  a  con- 
junction of  the  two,  "per  saltirc."  No  longer 
would  he  have  any  difficulty  in  distinguishing 
between  the  French  and  the  Dutch  tricolours  (a 
point  that  had  arisen  upon  the  voyage).  Why, 
of  course,  the  French  tricolour  was  tierced  "  in 
pale,"  the  Dutch  was  tierced  "in  fess ; "  what 
need,  then,  of  such  confusing  terms  as  horizontal 
and  perpendicular.  He  laughed  aloud  at  the 
exquisite  elemental  simplicity  of  it  all,  and 
plunged    into    the    ordinaries  and  subordinaries. 


A    NEW    WORLD    OF    KNOWLEDGE      119 

He  leaped  over  the  charges,  for  he  saw  at  a 
glance  how  they  should  be  used  ;  he  came  to 
the  rules  of  blazoning,  and  drew  a  deep  breath ; 
his  eyes  grew  dim  with  excited  tears. 

Rat!  tat!  tat!  Rat!  tat!  tat!  came  three 
times  at  the  library  door  before  he  could  re- 
call that  the  right  answer  to  such  a  sound 
was  "avanti."  Old  Baldassare  put  his  grey 
head  in  at  the  door,  and  announced  that  "col- 
azione"  was  "in  tavola."  "Where  am  I  ?"  the 
student  asked  himself,  "and  what  may  luncheon 
be,  and  who  is  this  respectable  old  person  who 
seems  to  know  me  ?  "  Baldassare  inquired  if  the 
Signorino  were  indisposed,  and  again  announced 
that  luncheon  was  ready,  and  that  the  "  Signor 
Barone"  and  the  "  Baronessina "  awaited  his 
good  pleasure.  The  "  Barone," — who  might  he 
be  ?  The  "  Baronessina  " — ah  !  he  remembered 
her  well  enough,  the  bright  sweet  face  and 
black  tumbling  hair.  He  made  haste  to  come 
to  the  luncheon  table.  His  eyes  were  bright  and 
glistening :  not  even  the  "  Baronessina "  called 
him  to  this  from  his  new  world  of  knowledge. 

"  Well,"  cried  Lord  Frederick  cheerily,  "  had 
a  pleasant  morning  ? " 

"Pleasant?     Yes,  sir!" 


120     ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    HERALDRY 

"Done  a  lot  of  cataloguing?" 

My  father  blushed  scarlet.  Only  then  did  it 
occur  to  him  that  he  had  been  wasting  his 
master's  time.  He  equivocated  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life.  "  Not  ve-very  much,  sir,"  he 
answered.  He  resolved  to  make  up  for  his 
dereliction  of  duty  in  the  afternoon,  for  that 
was  his  free  time,  and  he  could  then  do  his 
two  hours  of  cataloguing. 

Back  he  went  to  the  library.  Lord  Frederick 
was  out  of  doors  all  day  in  these  days,  busy 
about  the  olives  and  the  vintage.  He  turned 
to  the  title-page  of  Clark  to  make  a  proper  entry 
in  the  catalogue.  A  page  or  two  slipped  back, 
and  he  read  in  the  table  of  contents  the  word 
"marshalling."  What  may  marshalling  mean, 
he  wondered.  Conscience  died  within  him  all 
of  a  sudden.  How  much  more  high-sounding 
and  noble  a  thing  was  "  marshalling  "  than  poor, 
timid,  shrinking,  cowering,  worrying  conscience! 
He  turned  to  see.  "  Marshalling  coats-of-arms 
is  the  art  of  disposing  several,  or  more  than 
one,  of  them  in  one  escutcheon,  and  of  distri- 
buting their  parts  and  contingent  ornaments  in 
proper  places."  Distributing  parts!  and  con- 
tingent ornaments!    and    in    their  proper  places! 


ABSORPTION    IN    STUDY  121 

Conscience  lay  down  and  had  a  long  sleep,  during 
which  countless  delicious  experiments  in  mar- 
shalling were  made.  Then  he  passed  on  to 
exterior  ornaments — helmets,  mantling,  wreaths, 
crests,  badges,  mottoes,  supporters,  and  back 
again  convulsively  to  the  partition  lines,  lest 
he  should  have  forgotten  them.  Conscience 
woke  up  with  a  start  at  four  o'clock.  The  devil 
was  quickly  at  his  ear,  telling  him  he  could  do 
four  hours  cataloguing  to-morrow,  and  make  up 
for  lost  time.  So  he  could,  to  be  sure ;  what  a 
simple  solution !  "  Shame  upon  you,"  said  con- 
science. And  then  my  father  got  up  resolutely 
and  put  the  fiend  Clark  back  upon  the  shelf. 
Why,  he  could  begin  cataloguing  forthwith ; 
there  were  still  two  hours  before  dinner.  But 
the  devil  would  have  it  that  his  eye  should 
catch  "Spener"  on  the  shelves.  Heaven  help 
him  now,  for  the  "  Opus  Heraldicum "  is  writ 
entirely  in  Latin!  If  Heaven  helped  him,  he 
heeded  not  its  succour,  and  soon  knew  not  where 
he  was  or  what  he  did.  Not  only  had  he  dis- 
covered a  science  which  is  at  the  same  time  exact 
and  picturesque,  but  he  had  lit  upon  a  treatise 
on  it  in  the  exactest,  the  most  absorbing,  and 
the  most  expressive  of  all  languages ! 


122      ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    HERALDRY 

Rat!  tat!  tat!  Rat!  tat!  tat!  came  at  the 
door,  and  old  Baldassare  put  his  head  in  with 
the  announcement,  "  L  in  tavola,  sa !  "  But  his 
manner  changed  all  of  a  sudden  as  he  gazed 
upon  the  flushed  face  and  dancing  eyes  before 
him  and  noted  the  dishevelled  hair.  "  Ma  cos' 
ha,  Signorino  ?  What  is  the  matter  with  you? 
But  you  are  ill ;  you  have  the  fever ;  you  should 
be  in  bed ! " 

They  were  all  in  the  pay  of  the  devil  that 
day.  The  old  man  put  the  idea  in  his  head,  and 
from  equivocation  he  passed  on  to  lying.  "Yes, 
Baldassare,  I  am  not  well.  I  am  going  up  to 
bed.  Good-night.  Make  my  excuses  to  the 
Signor  Barone." 

The  powers  of  darkness  had  triumphed.  He 
put  volume  i.  of  the  "Opus  Heraldicum "  back 
on  the  shelves,  seized  upon  Clark  and  the  notes 
he  had  made,  and  hurried  up  to  his  bedroom 
for  some  hours  of  stolen  delight. 

At  Hale  he  might  have  been  left  in  peace 
had  he  not  showed  up  at  dinner.  But  he  had 
forgotten  that  here  he  was  surrounded  with  a 
loving  solicitude.  About  half-past  nine  there 
came  a  firm  rat  I  tat !  at  his  door,  and  in  walked 
my  Lord    Frederick,  with  a  look  of  concern  upon 


A    PENITENT  123 

his  face.  At  the  sight  of  that  dear  benefactor 
and  kind  father,  when  he  beheld  the  noble  face 
that  had  shone  upon  him  as  a  beacon  in  his  lost 
condition  in  the  streets  of  Leghorn,  my  father 
rushed  forward  and  fell  upon  his  knees  in  a  fit 
of  weeping.  His  attitude  said,  as  plain  as  words 
could  say,  "  Father,  I  have  sinned  against  Heaven 
and  before  thee,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be 
called  thy  son."  ^  My  lord  sat  him  down  on  one 
of  the  high-backed  bedroom  chairs  looking  a 
trifle  grave,  and  my  father  took  three  steps 
towards  him  on  his  knees,  and  buried  his  face 
in  a  loving  embrace.  "  My  dear  boy,  what  is 
the  matter  ? "  asked  Lord  Frederick  in  his 
kindest  tones.  And  then  my  father  told  him 
everything — everything  ;  just  as  he  had  told  him 
everything  in  the  little  inn  at  Leghorn ;  how 
he  had  been  guilty  of  five  heinous  sins  that 
day ;  how  he  had  forgotten  God  ;  how  he  had 
failed  in  his  duty  to  his  benefactor  ;  how  he  had 
been  guilty  of  idleness,  equivocation,  and  lying. 

But  Lord  Frederick  put  his  arm  round  the 
penitent,  in  a  very  uncomfortable  state  of  the 
emotions,  and  said,  "  My  dear,  dear  boy."  And 
this  he  repeated  a  great  many  times.  But  when 
he  had  got  the  better  of  his  emotion  he  said  in  a 


124     ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    HERALDRY 

very  fine  burst  of  mock  anger,  "  You  have  con- 
fessed your  sins  to  me,  and  for  your  sins  you 
must  do  penance.  Understand  me,  young  man  : 
for  two  whole  weeks  I  suspend  your  studies ;  you 
do  no  cataloguing  in  my  library  ;  and  for  two 
whole  weeks  you  are  to  read  no  books  save  such 
as  relate  to  the  noble  and  most  exalted  science  of 
heraldry."  Lord  Frederick  got  up  very  abruptly 
and  made  for  the  door.  But  he  turned  quickly 
on  his  heel.  "  I  have  not  cjuite  completed  your 
penance,"  he  said.  "Give  me  that  book.  And 
now,"  he  went  on,  "say  your  prayers  and  go  to 
bed  like  a  good  boy  and  sleep  sound." 

Once  more  he  turned  to  go,  but  somehow, 
without  knowing  how,  he  was  back  again,  hold- 
ing my  father  to  his  breast  in  a  close  embrace. 
"  My  dear,  dear  boy  ! "  he  said,  fairly  choking  ; 
"my  dear,  dear  boy!"  And  no  other  words 
could  he  get  across  his  lips  for  the  tears  that 
were  in  his  voice,  but  he  repeated  them  again, 
and  again,  and  again,  in  every  cadence  known 
to  love's  gamut.  But  I  say,  may  God  bless  him 
with  a  triple  benediction,  nor  do  I  forget  daily  to 
pray  the  Dispenser  Supreme  tiiat  his  dear  soul 
may  be  at  rest  in  the  peace  of  eternity,  though 
all  the  while  I  feel  sure  that  the  immortal  {)art  of 


A    NOBLE    CHRISTIAN    GENTLEMAN      125 

him  sped  straight  from  his  peaceful  deathbed, 
throueh  the  Gates  of  Paradise  into  the  loving 
arms  of  Him  in  Whose  sight  he  had  ever  striven 
to  live  the  life  of  a  pure  and  loyal  Christian 
gentleman. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MV  FATHER  TURNS  CATHOLIC 

And  now,  dear  reader,  if  you  have  followed  me 

thus    far,    I    crave    your    leave    to    make    a   brief 

personal  explanation.      In  writing  the   necessary 

memoir  oi  Mr.   Walshe  to  precede  his  complete 

works,   I  had  thought  of  dismissing  in  one  brief 

chapter   his  father  and  mother,  his  childhood  and 

boyhood,  his  going  into   business  and  his  flight 

therefrom,  his  reception  into  the  Catholic  Church 

and  his  marriage.      I  had  intended  to  commence 

from  the  days  that   I   could  first  remember  him, 

and   to   dwell   upon   those    later  days  in   which   1 

was  joined   to   him    in    llie  hapj)y  excitement  of 

absorbing  studies.      But  1    had  read  and  re-read 

those    "  Recollections "   so  dear   to   me,  and    my 

pen,    inspired   by    them,   has  run  away  with  me. 

My  idea  had  been  that  this  Memoir  should  have 

been  published   together  with   his  exquisite   little 

"  Life  of  St.   Clare  "  as   the  first  volume  of  the 

series.      Now   1   see   that   the   Memoir  is  sure  to 

run   to  a  bulk   which  will   need  separate  publica- 


1 36 


NO    RELIGIOUS    CONTROVERSY        127 

tion.  One  thing  more  (alas !) :  the  first  part  of 
this  book  being  inspired  by  the  "Recollections," 
cannot  fail  to  be  much  more  interesting"  than  the 
latter  half,  which  is  derived  mainly  from  my  own 
observations.  Moreover,  incident,  as  the  world 
understands  that  term,  practically  drops  from  Mr. 
Walshe's  life  with  his  marriage,  and  I  have  to 
enter  upon  the  domains  of  a  patient,  retiring 
scholar  and  a  humble,  retiring  saint.  But  let  all 
that  pass.  Even  the  rudest  hand,  I  will  hope, 
could  not  help  bringing  out  some  of  the  finer 
qualities  of  so  simple,  so  unspotted,  so  beautiful 
a  character. 

Yet  a  further  word  of  explanation.  I  have 
called  this  chapter  "  My  Father  turns  Catholic," 
and  in  it  he  does  turn  Catholic.  But  of  the 
arguments  which  influenced  him  to  that  step,  or 
the  difficulties  which  kept  him  for  a  time  from 
taking  it,  I  would  say  as  little  as  is  possible 
consistent  with  the  rationale  of  this  Memoir. 
I  would  not  for  a  kingdom  that  a  biography  of 
my  gentle  father  should  become,  through  any 
means  of  mine,  an  occasion  of  religious  contro- 
versy. He  was  never  in  any  definite  sense 
an  Anglican ;  he  escaped  confirmation  in  that 
Church    through    leaving    school    at   fifteen ;    he 


128        MY    FATnP:R    TURNS    CATHOLIC 

never  took  the  Sacrament  in  that  Church,  be- 
cause there  was  no  one  in  his  home  who  cared 
whether  he  did  or  not.  He  was  accustomed  to 
say  in  after  life  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
virtues  of  the  EngHsh  Church  until  he  left  it, 
and  never  appreciated  the  good  qualities  of  the 
dissenting  sects  until  he  turned  Catholic.  What 
need  have  I  to  emphasise  the  weak  points  of 
so  respectable  a  communion  as  the  National 
Church  by  law  established,  or  to  call  attention 
to  the  want  of  logic  in  the  sects  by  law  tolerated  ? 
My  father's  life  of  itself  justifies  his  fiith,  com- 
mends and  recommends  it  more  eloquently  than 
all  the  irrefragable  "pros"  and  "cons"  ever 
adduced  in  support  of  a  system  of  religious  be- 
lief Besides,  there  is  no  need  to  make  excuses 
for  obedience  to  conscience,  or  to  justify  a  step 
which  has  been  taken  by  many  of  the  noblest 
and  best  Englishmen  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
And  yet  something  must  be  said  if  I  am  to 
be  faithful  to  my  subject,  I  think  my  father's 
immediate  conversion  came  through  the  Catholic 
mystics.  In  them  he  found  mysticism  depending 
upon  a  system  which  was  not  in  itself  neces- 
sarily mystical,  but  rather  practical.  In  them 
he   fjund  every  avenue  to  personal  jiridc  or  self- 


THE    MYSTICS  129 

esteem    rigorously   cut    off;    in    them    he    found 
men  and  women  who,   while  rapt  in  contempla- 
tion of  the  dizzying  heights  and  the  vertiginous 
depths   of  the    Divine    Being,   yet   had    a   scru- 
pulous care   of  the    daily    practical    virtues,   and 
never   failed    in    their  obedience    to    the    natural 
homely    instinct    of    common    sense.       In    other 
words,   and   to  put  it  quite  bluntly,  the  Catholic 
mystics  were  people  who  kept  their  heads  upon 
their  shoulders,  and  would  allow  of  no  sublime 
contemplation  that  was  not  accompanied  by  the 
homespun    virtues.       The    Catholic  mystics   did 
not  insist  upon   mysticism  for   all ;    they   distin- 
guished   between    the    commandments   and   the 
precepts ;  the  Catholic  mystic  was  wide-minded, 
the   non-Catholic    narrow   and    yet   unrestrained. 
When    he   was    seventeen   (and   earlier)  he  had 
known  and  been  fascinated  by  William  Law  and 
Peter  Sterry,  Jacob  Bohme  and   Robert  Fludd, 
Francis    Lee   and    Jeremy   White,    Mary    Anne 
Schimmelpenninck,  Henry  Mores  "  Divine  Dia- 
logues,"  Jane    Lead's    "Fountain   of   Gardens," 
Robert  Roach's  "  Imperial  Standard,"  Bromley's 
"Way   to    the    Sabbath    of    Rest,"    Bramwell's 
"Life"  by  Sigston,   "the  Lord's  Dealings  with 
Miiller,"  and   how  many  other    strange   writers 


I30        MY    FATHER    TURNS    CATHOLIC 

whom  I  find  briefly  commented  upon  in  the  "  Re- 
collections," but  of  whom  I  know  nothing  whatso- 
ever myself.  It  was  not  until  he  came  to  have 
the  run  of  Lord  Frederick's  library  that  he  read 
Walter  Hilton's  "  Ladder  of  Perfection,"  Father 
Baker's  "  Sancta  Sophia,"  St.  Theresa  and  St. 
John  of  the  Cross  in  an  Italian  version,  Father 
Constantin  de  Barbanson's  "  Compendium  of 
True  Mystical  Theology,"  Denis  the  Carthusian, 
St.  Francis  of  Sales  and  Fenelon,  Henry  Suso 
in  the  Latin,  Harphius,  Taulcrus,  and  Rus- 
brochius,^  and,  above  all,  the  great  Abbot 
Blosius,  who  remained  unto  the  very  last  his 
favourite  spiritual  writer.  Father  Lorenzo  Scu- 
poli  I  do  not  reckon  among  mystical  writers ; 
nay,  rather  will  I  call  him  the  sure  corrective 
of  the  excesses  into  which  mysticism  might 
lead  the  vain  and  unwary  ;   but  about  this  time 

'  Or  Ruysbroeck,  as  M.  Maeterlinck,  a  modern  of  the  moderns, 
persists  in  calling  him.  I  could  as  triumphantly  call  Hugo  Grotius 
"  Huig  van  Groot"  (and  then  triumphantly  ask  you  whom  I  mean). 
The  dead  Latin  language  has  a  vitality  known  to  no  other  tongue  : 
it  has  actually  been  able  to  strip  a  genius  of  the  name  which  God 
gave  him,  and  endow  him  with  a  name  by  which  all  mortals  know 
him.  I  know  of  no  spirit  more  paltry  and  pitiful  than  that  which 
would  rob  a  great  man  of  his  Latin  appellation.  .Some  day,  per- 
haps, an  enlightened  age  will  kick  against  .Slawkcnbcrgius,  and 
insist  upon  calling  the  immortal  author  of  the  treatise  "  De 
Nasis"  Herr  Slawkenberg.— I',  yt:.  W. 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  LOGIC  131 

my  father  was  greatly  influenced  and  braced  by 
the  daily  absorption  of  his  "Spiritual  Combat." 
I  cannot  now  recall  who  the  holy  person  was  that 
said  the  "  Imitation "  told  him  what  to  do  and 
the  "  Spiritual  Combat "  how  to  do  it  (surely  it 
must  have  been  St.  Francis  of  Sales.'*),  but  it 
is  certain  that  my  father  had  a  similar  experi- 
ence, and  through  the  influence  of  this  little 
book  he  had  begun  a  Catholic  life  some  months 
before  he  became  a  Catholic. 

Catholic  mysticism  was  then,  I  take  it,  the 
causa  adequata  of  Mr.  Walshe's  conversion  to 
Catholicism.  But  I  must  not  omit,  as  causa 
inadequata  superior,  Logic,  which  helped  him  to 
grasp  the  idea  of  oneness.  A  very  simple  matter 
the  candid  reader  may  think,  but  that  there  is 
in  the  complex  human  mind  a  strange  natural 
tendency  to  embrace  as  consistent,  contradic- 
tories in  one  and  the  same  idea  of  unity.  Are 
there  not  Englishmen  who  affirm  that  there  are 
three  branches  of  a  Church,  each  contradicting 
one  another  in  dogma,  the  only  true  test  of  one- 
ness, and  yet  forming  one  and  the  same  body  ?  ^ 
It  may  be  but  the  grain  of  dust  of  a  butterfly's 

^  My  friend  seems  momentarily  to  have  forgotten  his  resolve 
not  to  trench  upon  controversial  matter.  But  I  am  bound  to 
print  what  he  has  written. — M.  C. 


132        MY    FATHER    TURNS    CATHOLIC 

wing  that  separates  East  from  West,  but  the 
grain  happens  to  relate  to  an  infinite  matter,  and 
therefore  the  separation  is  infinite.  Nor  should 
I  omit  as  causa  inadequata  inferior  the  noble 
Latin  tongue,  which,  as  the  language  of  the 
Church,  told  upon  my  father's  emotions  by  its 
sublimity,  and  helped  him  in  his  reasonings  by 
its  subtlety  and  lucidity.  How  much  more 
might  I  not  say,  were  I  not  resolved  that  peace 
is  to  come  out  of  a  peaceful  life,  and  not  a 
strife  of  words  or  a  storm  of  controversy. 

John  William  Walshe,  the  subject  of  this 
Memoir,  was  received  into  the  Catholic  Church 
on  the  eve  of  Palm  Sunday,  1856.  As  you 
drive  from  Lucca  to  the  baths  of  Lucca,  just 
beyond  Ponte-a-Moriano,  in  the  valley  of  the 
Serchio,  rises  the  Monte  S.  Angelo,  and  the 
white  building  on  the  top  of  it  is  a  Passionist 
retreat.  Here  my  father  arrived  on  the  eve  of 
Passion  Sunday  to  prepare  himself  in  peace  and 
quietness  for  the  step  he  was  about  to  take. 
He  went  through  the  regular  exercises  of  a 
retreat,  tasting  the  sweets  of  silence  which  was 
naturally  so  dear  to  him.  He  also  kept  choir 
with  the  fathers,  thus  receiving  his  first  lesson 
in  practical   liturgy.     On   Thursday   and    P'riday 


FIRST  COMMUNION  133 

he  made  his  general  confession ;  on  Saturday 
was  conditionally  baptized  ;  and  on  Palm  Sunday 
at  seven  in  the  morning,  Lord  Frederick  and 
his  daughter  having  come  over  for  the  occasion, 
he  knelt  at  the  altar  rails  to  receive  into  his 
bosom  that  dear  Lord  Jesus  upon  whom  he 
had  so  often  called  in  the  bitter  hours  and 
turbulent  days  of  his  childhood  and  boyhood/ 

^  I  cannot  but  regret  that  Mr.  Philip  Walshe  has  thought  fit 
to  pass  over  with  such  exceeding  brevity  this  momentous  event 
in  his  father's  hfe.  It  would  surely  have  been  extremely  instruc- 
tive to  have  had  a  full  account  of  all  the  circumstances  and 
reasons  which  led  to  the  change.  My  friend,  I  know,  was 
sensitively  anxious  to  avoid  anything  which  would  lead  to  reli- 
gious controversy.  But  oh  !  the  vanity  of  human  wishes,  for 
surely  in  the  very  next  chapter  he  has  forgotten  that  De  Maistre's 
argument  against  the  Anglican  Church  is  just  of  the  sort  to  lead 
to  a  storm  of  controversy.  Perhaps  in  copying  straight  from 
^the  "  Recollections,"  instead  of  writing  himself,  he  was  led  to 
forget  the  very  salutary  principle  which  he  had  set  before  him. 
— M.  C. 


CHAPTER    X 

MY    FATHER    IS    INTRODUCED    TO    THE    COUNT 
JOSEPH    DE    MAISTRE 

It  is  extraordinary  to  me,  when  I  remember 
the  inrushings  of  feeling  to  which  he  had  been 
subject,  how  tranquilly  my  father  came  into  the 
Church.  It  was  for  all  the  world  like  coming 
into  the  still  waters  of  a  harbour  after  a  raging 
storm.  He  was  at  rest,  and  his  mind  in  conse- 
quence began  to  work  with  great  vigour  and 
activity.  That  Carlyle,  whom  he  ceased  to  read 
but  never  ceased  to  admire,  has  said  that  a 
clerk  cannot  for  ever  be  verifying  his  ready- 
reckoner.  My  father  had  acquired  complete 
faith  in  God's  own  ready-reckoner,  as  I  may 
call  the  Church,  and  he  never  once  found  it 
fail  him   in  his  life's  calculations. 

He  came  into  the  Church  tranquilly,  as  I 
have  said,  but  he  did  not  immediately  discover 
his  settled  place  therein.  I'^iiih,  like  marriage, 
is    a   ]ca[)    in    the    dark    iiUu   a  new  state  of  life. 

Not  until  the  leap  is  taken  does  real  knowledge 

134 


A  STEADYING  INFLUENCE  NEEDED   135 

come,  and  only  then  when  sufficient  time  has 
passed  to  allow  of  recovery  from  the  dizzying 
effects  of  the  leap.  My  father  had  very  much 
yet  to  learn  about  the  Catholic  Church :  he 
could  barely  follow  the  Mass ;  Vespers  still 
muddled  him  ;  he  could  in  nowise  come  to  a 
satisfactory  conclusion  as  to  his  private  devo- 
tions, or  the  pious  practices  he  should  adopt, 
or  the  Sodalities  he  should  join.  The  born 
Catholic  takes  the  Church's  riches  as  a  matter 
of  course ;  he  comes  of  a  long  line  of  Catholics, 
and  was  born  to  untold  spiritual  riches ;  how- 
ever humble  in  the  world,  in  the  Church  he  is 
an  aristocrat.  The  convert  comes  into  his  spiri- 
tual riches  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  after 
much  tribulation  and  anguish  ;  like  the  gainer 
of  new  wealth,  he  is  apt  to  handle  his  riches 
overmuch,  to  waste  time  in  grateful  raptures  over 
them,  and  Mr.  Walshe  was  no  exception  to  the 
rule.  Peace,  perfect  peace  was  in  his  soul,  but 
it  was  obvious  that  he  needed  a  steadying 
influence.  That  steadying  influence  appeared 
upon  the  scene  about  six  months  afterwards  in 
the  majestic  figure  of  the  Count  Joseph  de 
Maistre. 

The  Count  de  Maistre  died  in   182 1,  and  his 


136  COUNT    JOSEPH    DE    MAISTRE 

"  Letters"  did  not  appear  until  1851.  It  had  been 
the  fashion  up  to  that  date  to  decry  the  great 
Count  as  hard  and  stern  and  narrow,  to  call  him 
a  bigot,  an  absolutist,  a  reactionary,  an  obscur- 
antist, and  all  the  stock  epithets  which  it  is  the 
custom  of  the  little  to  apply  to  the  great  who 
will  not  walk  on  the  broad  and  easy  way  which 
leadeth  to  destruction.  But  after  the  appearance 
of  the  "  Letters,"  for  very  shame,  the  puny  had 
to  keep  silence,  while  the  better  sort  gladly 
admitted  that  the  formidable  Count  was  wise 
and  witty,  affectionate  and  even  tender  in  his 
domestic  circle,  skilled  in  human  weaknesses  and 
extremely  tolerant  of  human  failings  {"  Quand  on 
n  dviterait  qiiiine  faicte  en  dix  a7is,  cc  scrait  quelque 
chose"  he  says  somewhere).  Since  then,  the 
world,  on  the  whole,  has  ceased  to  cavil  at  this 
great  man  ;  it  has  known  how  to  serve  its  pur- 
pose better  :  it  has  left  him  severely  alone. 

The  Letircs  and  Opuscules  was  the  first  work 
of   De    Maistre's^    that    came    in    Mr.    Walshe's 

'  Of  course,  as  he  himself  pleads  (in  a  letter  to  M.  Syon,  a 
Piedmontese,  dated  14th  November  1820),  he  should  be  called 
"  Maistrc"  in  such  a  connection  in  accordance  with  the  elementary 
rules  of  French  grammar.  But  it  is  too  late  now,  and  it  would  he 
idle  and  pedantic,  to  try  and  remedy  an  error  which  has  be- 
come deep-rooted  in  all  English  references  to  the  great  writer. — 
P.  yt.  W. 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS  OF  DE  MAISTRE   137 

way.  He  read  the  two  volumes  through  three 
times,  and  so  greatly  was  he  carried  away  by 
the  charm  of  the  work,  that  he  never  even 
paused  to  ask  what  other  works  this  author  might 
have  written.  But  he  was  soon  deep  in  Du  Pape, 
the  Principe  G^ndrateur,  and  the  Soirees  de  St. 
Petersbourg.  Under  the  invigorating  influence 
of  this  bracing  thought,  the  last  of  the  cobwebs 
were  fairly  brushed  out  of  his  mind  for  ever,  and 
he  found  himself  equipped  not  only  with  a  true 
and  robust  view  of  his  religious  belief,  but  like- 
wise with  a  complete  and  convincing  scheme  of 
political  science.  I  regret  that  he  has  not  left  us 
a  Life  of  the  great  "  Allobroge  "  with  a  complete 
exposition  of  his  teaching :  'tis  a  work  much 
needed  in  England.  But  I  copy  some  impres- 
sions of  De  Maistre  from  the  "Recollections" 
which  relate  to  this  period. 

"The  night  was  dark;  I  was  far  from  home; 
an  ugly  journey  lay  before  me  through  dreariest 
difficult  country.  It  was  useless  to  try  and  grope 
my  way  alone ;  the  necessity  of  a  guide  had 
become  obvious.  Guides  there  were  in  plenty 
swarming  about  the  halfway  house,  attractive, 
pleasant  fellows  many  of  them,  excellent  conver- 
sationalists and  charming  companions  all  of  them. 


138  COUNT    JOSEPH    DE    MAISTRE 

But  when  I  came  to  examine  their  credentials, 
they  were  all  woefully  deficient ;  not  one  of  them 
could  produce  a  certificate  legalised  by  the  Master 
of  the  Road.  Not  one,  until,  as  a  last  resort,  I 
examined  the  credentials  of  the  least  officious 
and  most  unattractive  of  them  all,  an  old  man, 
to  me  seemingly  past  work,  coming  of  an  ancient 
family  of  guides  founded  by  one  Peter  the  Gali- 
lean, now  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago,  and, 
strange  to  say,  his  papers  alone  were  in  order. 
It  was  no  time  for  trifling;  reason  and  common 
sense  obliged  me  to  engage  him  in  spite  of  a 
strong  personal  antipathy. 

"  So  we  started  out  together  on  that  memorable 
journey.  My  antipathy  seemed  to  increase  with 
the  difficulties  of  the  road :  he  was  no  boon 
companion  this  guide  of  mine  ;  he  declined  to 
learn  of  me  or  be  lectured  by  me ;  he  ignored 
all  my  suggestions  to  proceed  by  pleasant  places, 
and  ever  led  me  from  the  broad  highways  to 
narrow  rough  impassable  paths.  It  was  not 
until  I  had  accomplished  a  good  stretch  of  the 
journey,  wounded,  weary,  and  footsore  through 
overmuch  neglect  of  orders,  that  I  met  on  the 
road  the  venerable  and  majestic  figure  of  the 
Count  de    Maistre,   who,   turning  back  with  me, 


DU  PAPE  139 

unfolded  all  the  rich  treasures  of  his  heart  and 
mind,  and  taught  me  to  love  my  guide,  and  to 
follow  him  with  implicit  confidence  and  rever- 
ential obedience. 

"It  was  not  that  De  Maistre  had  anything 
precisely  new  to  tell  me  about  the  road :  it  was 
his  view  of  the  road,  his  view  of  my  guide,  his 
neat  conclusive  exegesis  of  the  reasonableness  of 
common  sense,  his  common-sense  uses  of  reason, 
his  terse  refutations,  without  weary  ratiocination, 
by  inspiration  as  it  were,  of  popular,  dearly  loved 
theories,  his  thousand  and  one  wise  and  witty 
sayings,  all  of  them  springing  to  my  lips  in  happy 
rejoinder  to  the  insolent  passers-by  who  mocked 
at  my  guide.  It  was  all  these  things,  coupled 
with  his  splendid  exposition  of  the  Catholic 
attitude,  that  caused  me  to  bow  down  and  call 
him  master. 

"  I  suppose  that  no  Catholic  book  of  the  century 
has  had  so  great  an  influence  upon  the  conduct 
and  destinies  of  modern  Catholics  as  Du  Pape, 
which  appeared  in  1820.  Gallicanism  fled  before 
it ;  Febronianism  lay  down  and  died  under  it ; 
the  gibbering  ghost  of  Jansenism  melted  into 
thin  air  at  its  coming.  It  is  not  too  much  to 
say,  humanly  speaking,  that  D^i  Pape  made  the 


140  COUNT    JOSEPH    DE    MAISTRE 

great  Syllabus  possible  and  the  Vatican  defini- 
tion imperative.  Nor  was  this  book  without  its 
influence  on  the  Catholic  revival  in  Ensfland. 
Alas !  that  it  should  not  have  been  more  studied 
at  Oxford  ;  but  the  leaders  of  the  Tractarians 
were  too  much  occupied  by  the  necessity  of 
acquiring,  after  a  long  slumber,  the  very  elements 
of  Catholicism  and  liturgical  science ;  and  the 
fatal  fascination  which  the  indeterminate  in  re- 
ligion has  for  the  modern  mind,  has  been  suffered 
to  grow  apace  until  it  threatens  to  become  a 
national  danofer. 

"One  of  my  dearest  friends  was  an  Anglican 
who  had  been  in  the  thick  of  that  Oxford  move- 
ment. His  views  would  be  considered  moderate 
now-a-days  ;  they  were  thought  extreme  in  1870. 
I  think  he  was  altogether  the  most  lovable  soul 
I  have  ever  known,  and  he  had  as  fine  an 
intelligence  as  I  have  ever  met  with.  God 
knows  how  I  longed  to  see  him  a  Catholic, 
how  I  [)rayed  for  him,  how  I  offered  my  com- 
munions for  him,  how  I  had  holy  mass  said  for 
his  conversion.  Hut  he,  while  daily  growing  in 
charity  and  all  lovable  qualities,  seemed  to  be- 
come more  than  ever  rootedly  fixed  in  High 
Church    Anglicanism.      I    cannot  to  this  day  tell 


ARGUMENT  AGAINST  THE   VIA  MEDIA   141 

what  held  him  back.  He  could  not  explain  it 
himself;  I  do  not  think  he  was  conscious  of 
being  evasive,  yet  he  perpetually  slipped  through 
my  fingers.  It  is  seldom,  indeed,  that  I  have 
ever  entered  into  anything  approaching  religious 
controversy,  but  I  did  ask  this  friend,  for  the 
great  love  I  bore  him,  to  read  Du  Pape.  He 
smiled  and  was  evasive.  I  returned  to  the  charge 
again  and  again  ;  I  wrote  to  him  ;  I  asked  him 
as  a  favour  that  he  would  read  Du  Pape,  but  a 
year  went  by  and  he  never  did  so. 

"  I  then  sat  down  and  copied  out  a  page  of 
the  book.  It  contains  an  argument  against 
Anglicanism,  but  not  the  argument  of  a  contro- 
versialist ;  simply  the  common-sense  conclusions 
of  a  wise  man  clothed  in  winged  words.  My 
friend  read  this  page  through  thrice,  knelt  down 
in  prayer  for  ten  minutes,  put  on  his  hat,  went 
out  in  search  of  the  nearest  Catholic  priest, 
and  tumultuously  demanded  to  be  received  into 
the  Church.  The  winged  words  of  De  Maistre 
had  brought  the  card  castle  of  the  Via  Media 
toppling  about  his  ears  beyond  all  earthly  hope 
of  reconstruction.  These  were  the  words  which 
I  had  copied  : — 

" '  L'Eglise   anglicane    est    d'ailleurs    la    seule 


142  COUNT    JOSEPH    DE    MAISTRE 

association  du  monde  qui  se  soit  dcclaree  nulle 
.  .  .  dans  Tacte  meme  qui  la  constitue.  Elle  a 
proclame  solennellement  dans  cet  acte  Trente- 
neuf  Articles,  ni  plus,  ni  moins,  absolument 
n^cessaires  au  salut,  et  qu'il  faut  jurer  pour 
appartenir  a  cette  Eglise.  Mais  I'un  de  ces 
articles  (le  xix')  declare  solennellement  que  Dieu, 
en  constituant  son  Eglise  n'a  point  laisse  I'in- 
faillibilite  sur  la  terre  ;  que  toutes  les  Eglises  se 
sont  trompees,  a  commencer  par  celle  de  Rome  ; 
qu'elles  se  sont  trompees  grossierement,  meme 
sur  le  dogme,  meme  sur  la  morale ;  en  sorte 
qu'aucune  d'elles  ne  possede  le  droit  de  prescrire 
la  croyance,  et  que  I'ecriture  sainte  est  I'unique 
regie  chretien.  L'figlise  anglicane  declare  done 
a  ses  enfants  quelle  a  bien  Ic  droit  de  leur 
commander,  mais  qu'ils  ont  le  droit  de  ne  pas  lui 
obeir,  Dans  le  meme  moment,  avec  la  meme 
plume,  avec  la  meme  encre,  sur  le  meme  papier, 
elle  declare  le  dogme  et  declare  qu'elle  n'a  pas  le 
droit  de  le  declarer.  J'espere  que  dans  I'inter- 
minable  catalogue  des  folies  humaines,  celle-la 
tiendra  toujours  une  des  premieres  places,'  How 
simple  the  view :  yet  it  had  never  occurred  to 
my  friend  that  his  Church,  while  prescribing  to 
her  children   the  articles  touching  true  religion, 


THE  S0IR£ES  DE  ST.  PETJ^RSBOURG     143 

admitted  at  the  same  moment  that  she  might  be 
in  error  about  those  articles. 

"  But  if  Du  Pape  has  had  the  widest  influence 
of  all  De  Maistre's  works,  the  influence  of  the 
Soirdes  de  St.  PdUrsbourg  has  even  been  more 
momentous,  in  that  it  has  appealed  to  and  satis- 
fied that  smaller  section  of  mankind — much  to 
be  pitied  and  much  to  be  considered — that  is 
troubled  by  reason  of  God's  inscrutable  ways 
with  the  children  of  men.  This  book,  more 
than  any  other,  has  helped  a  few  struggling 
souls  to  see  that  the  mysteries  of  faith  are  a 
light  and  easy  burden  beside  the  mysteries 
of  the  grievous,  hopeless  burden  of  unbelief. 
Mystery  against  mystery :  if  original  sin  and 
the  exclusion  of  one  single  soul  from  the  beatific 
vision  trouble  and  perplex  the  intellect,  how  easy 
of  belief  are  they,  how  reasonable,  in  compari- 
son with  belief  in  a  First  Cause  that  you  must 
call  Unknowable,  though  its  very  appellation 
implies  the  knowledge  that  it  has  causality,  or 
with  that  God  of  the  Theists  who,  denying  the 
calamity  of  the  Fall,  have  to  believe  that  man 
left  his  Creator's  hands  fractured  in  the  will. 
'Assemblage  inconcevable  de  deux  puissances 
diff<6rentes  et   incompatibles ' — thus    De  Maistre 


144  COUNT    JOSEPH    DE    MAISTRE 

describes  man  in  his  famous  Deuxihne  Entretien 
— '  centaure  monstreux,  il  sent  qu'il  est  le  re- 
sultat  de  quelque  forfait  inconnu,  de  quelque 
melange  detestable  qui  a  vicie  rhomme  jusque 
dans  son  essence  la  plus  intime.  Toute  intelli- 
gence est  par  sa  nature  meme  le  resultat,  a  la 
fois  ternaire  et  unique,  d'une  perceptioyi  qui  ap- 
prehende,  d'un  raison  qui  affirme,  et  d'une  volonte 
qui  agit.  Les  deux  premieres  puissances  ne  sont 
qu'affaiblies  dans  I'homme ;  mais  la  troisieme 
est  bris(^e.  .  .  .  C'est  dans  cette  troisieme  puis- 
sance que  I'homme  se  sent  blesse  a  mort.  II 
ne  sait  ce  qu'il  veut ;  il  veut  ce  qu'il  ne  veut 
pas ;  il  ne  veut  pas  ce  qu'il  veut ;  il  voudrait 
vouloir.  .  .  .  Qui  pourrait  croire,'  he  then  cries, 
'  qui  pourrait  croire  qu'un  tel  etre  ait  pu  sortir 
dans  cet  etat  des  mains  du  Createur  ?  Cette 
idee  est  si  revoltante  que  la  philosophic  seule 
.  .  .  a  devin^  le  peche  originel.' 

"  There  is  one  point  on  which  no  man  has 
ever  quarrelled  with  Joseph  de  Maistre,  and  that 
is  the  quality  of  his  style.  He  was  not  a 
Frenchman,  but  a  subject  of  the  King  of  Sar- 
dinia, and  yet  I  should  suppose  that  he  is  the 
greatest  master  of  Trench  style  who  ever  lived, 
'  Son     vraie     triomphe,'     says    Lamartinc,     '  est 


SOME    WISE    SAYINGS  145 

dans  le  style.  II  est  ici,  non  sans  ^gal,  mais 
sans  pareil.'  By  reason  of  his  style,  he  goes 
on  to  say,  you  will  read  him  for  the  mere  plea- 
sure of  reading.  It  needs,  he  continues,  a  com- 
pound of  the  styles  of  three  great  Frenchmen 
to  make  up  the  style  of  this  great  writer.  He 
has  the  elevation  of  Bossuet,  the  sarcasm  of 
Voltaire,  the  depth  of  Pascal. 

"  In   De  Maistre  wit  and  wisdom  go  hand  in 
hand ;    neatness,    deftness,    conciseness   are   ele- 
ments of  his  every  phrase  ;  he  can  tell  you  the 
whole  duty  of  man  or  the  real  object  of  religion 
or   philosophy    in   a   single    sentence    of    a   few 
winged    words.      Would    you    know    the    whole 
duty  of  man  ?     '  L'homme  doit  agir  comme  s'il 
pouvait  tout,  et  se  resigner  comme  s'il  ne  pouvait 
rien.'     Or  the  whole  duty  of  parents?     *  II  faut 
amuser  les  jeunes  gens  afin  qu'ils  ne  s'amusent 
pas.'     Or  the  whole   duty   of  the  student?      '  II 
n'y  a  point  de  methodes  faciles  pour  apprendre 
les  choses  difficiles.      L'unique   methode  est  de 
fermer  sa  porte,  de  faire  dire  qu'on  n'y  est  pas, 
et  de  travailler.'      Or  would  you  know  the  most 
dangerous    form    of    ignorance,     the    ignorance 
which    is    the    cause    of    the    worst    prejudices 
against    the    truth  ?       *  Les    plus    ignorants    des 

K 


146  COUNT    JOSEPH    DE    MAISTRE 

hommes  sont  ceux  qui  prennent  pour  un  mal 
I'inconvenient  du  bien.'  L'inconvMient  du 
bien !  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  known  no 
wisdom  until  I  read  this  phrase.  Why,  I  too, 
all  my  life  long,  had  been  taking  the  mere  '  in- 
convenient du  bien '  for  a  positive  evil,  and  had 
indeed  been   the  most  ignorant  of  men. 

"  But  one  other  tribute  to  my  Master.  One, 
Holy,  Catholic,  Apostolic :  those  are  the  four 
great  notes  of  the  Church.  But  they  need 
much  proof  and  exposition.  Joseph  de  Maistre 
has  divined  a  fifth  note,  which  is  now-a-days 
every  bit  as  conclusive  :  '  Tous  les  ennemis  de 
Rome  sont  amis ! '  That  is  the  great  glory  of 
the  modern  Church  :  she  is  one  within  herself, 
and  is  yet  so  powerful  as  to  make  all  other 
bodies  outside  her  one  against  herself." 


CHAPTER   XI 

MY     FATHER     MARRIES 

The  years  1855  to  1861  slipped  away  speedily 
and  tranquilly.  They  were  years  of  perfect 
happiness  to  my  father.  Under  such  favour- 
able circumstances  he  gradually  ripened  into  a 
consummate  scholar.  Bibliography,  Palaeography, 
and  Liturgical  studies  divided  his  attention  with 
Heraldry,  Numismatics,  Chronology,  Genealogy, 
and  the  Laws  of  Succession.  By  the  time  he 
was  twenty-one  he  was  in  active  correspondence 
with  a  number  of  learned  societies  and  distin- 
ofuished  men  ;  and  it  must  have  been  rather  a 
proud  moment — if  ever,  indeed,  he  felt  the 
sensations  of  pride — when  the  learned  Cardinal 
Palladini  gratefully  acknowledged  the  valuable 
assistance  of  "  D.  Joannes  Walshius "  in  the 
preface  to  his  Tractatus  de  Rebus  Liturgicis. 
I  could  point  to  more  than  one  second  edition 
which  owes  its  greater  value  to  the  long  list  of 
corrigenda  which   "Walshius"  had  noted  in  the 

first  edition.      Indeed,  he  had  a  hawk's  eye  for 

147 


148  MY    FATHER    MARRIES 

inaccuracies  of  fact,  and  a  no  less  keen  per- 
ception of  the  false  consequences,  however  elu- 
sive, which  must  always  flow  from  false  fact. 
With  Padre  Raimondo  he  passed  on  from  logic 
through  the  whole  curriculum  of  scholastic  philo- 
sophy. It  was  an  excellent  mental  training,  and 
he  thoroughly  enjoyed  it,  nor  did  he  in  after  life 
ever  cease  the  study  of  philosophy.  As  to 
theology,  I  should  say  he  would  have  made  an 
excellent  theologian,  but  though  he  had  a  strong 
theological  bent,  he  would  never  take  up  an 
elaborate  systematic  study  of  the  great  science. 
That,  he  would  declare,  was  the  work  of  a  life- 
time, and,  moreover,  that  a  layman  had  no  need 
of  theology  on  a  great  scale. 

During  these  tranquil  years  my  father  does 
not  seem  to  have  manifested  any  signs  of  that 
interior  mystical  piety,  of  that  lofty  contempla- 
tive sanctity,  which  was  a  growing  quality  with 
him  in  the  latter  half  of  his  life,  and  had  reached 
a  surprising  degree  of  elevation  ere  his  course 
was  run.  He  was  very  careful  in  observing  all 
fasts  and  abstinences,  went  daily  to  Mass,  and 
to  monthly  Confession  and  Communion,  gave  a 
good  hour  of  the  day  to  prayer  and  religious 
exercises,    and     never     omitted    a     brief    annual 


TRANQUIL    YEARS  149 

retreat.  He  seems  in  these  years  to  have  been 
content  with  the  commandments,  and  not  to  have 
dreamt  of  aspiring  even  to  the  spirit  of  the  pre- 
cepts. He  practised  no  voluntary  mortifications 
or  austerities,  and  though  he  had  read  so  much 
of  contemplation,  he  made  no  effort  to  become  a 
contemplative  himself  He  was  always  patient, 
sweet,  unselfish,  open  -  handed  with  the  poor, 
long-suffering  with  the  fatuous,  charitable  to  the 
ignorant,  and  scrupulous  in  the  discharge  of  every 
duty.  But  there  was  scarce  a  ripple  in  the  quiet 
stream  of  his  life,  and  his  virtues,  in  the  absence 
of  voluntary  sacrifice,  could  not  take  heroic  shape. 
He  was  simply  full  of  the  tumultuous  joy  of 
study,  turning  over  and  over  again  in  his  mind 
with  infinite  relish  the  rich  stores  which  he  was 
garnering  up.  Nor  should  it  be  forgotten  that  he 
was  serving  his  seven  years'  apprenticeship  of 
silent  adoration  that  he  might  become  worthy  of 
the  hand  of  Rachel!  He  never  seems  to  have 
had  the  least  temptation  to  become  a  priest,  and 
for  that  he  has,  perhaps,  to  thank  the  good  angel 
Rachel.  He  would  never  have  made  a  priest, 
though  he  died  in  something  like  the  odour  of 
sanctity.  It  is  the  torment  of  many  converts 
that,    in    gratitude    for    their    conversion,    they 


ISO  MY    FATHER    MARRIES 

desire  to  consecrate  their  lives  to  God  in  the  sacer- 
dotal state.  From  that  torment,  and  the  failure 
which  so  often  attends  the  effort,  my  father  was 
mercifully  spared.  Of  the  sacerdotal,  as  of  the 
perfect  Christian  state,  it  may  truly  be  said  that 
many  are  called  but  few  are  chosen. 

John  Walshe  died  in  iS6o.  He  was  found 
in  his  office  chair,  stiff  and  stark,  chill  and  for- 
bidding as  the  Manchester  February  day  on 
which  he  died.  He  had  never  written  a  line 
to  his  son,  nor  made  any  attempt  to  approach 
him  or  recover  him.  From  the  moment  of  the 
flight  he  began  to  stiffen  under  the  rigid  hand 
of  death.  He  never  did  a  mean  or  dishonour- 
able thing  in  business ;  his  word  was  as  good 
as  his  bond  ;  he  observed  all  the  outer  decen- 
cies of  life  :  that  is  the  best  epitaph  I  can  write 
upon  him,  and  it  is  much  when  compared  with 
many  of  the  affable,  easy-going,  pleasure-loving, 
unscrupulous  men  of  business  of  to-day,  who, 
without  trickery  and  make-believe,  would  soon 
fall   far  behind   in   the  race   for  wealth. 

My  father  had  written  regularly  every  month  to 
his  mother,  and  had  in  return  regularly  received 
gushing,  sentimental,  effusive  epistles.  He  rou.sed 
himself   from    his    beautiful    dream,    and    hurried 


MANCHESTER    REVISITED  151 

home  to  her  at  the  time  of  the  crisis.  After  a 
most  genuinely  cordial  greeting  she  very  pro- 
perly fainted.  My  father  saw  the  old  house 
again  with  a  confused  kind  of  pleasure  ;  he  went 
out  into  the  old  orchard  and  looked  up  at  the 
apple-tree  cradle ;  it  was  covered  with  snow. 
Manchester  was  fast  creeping  out  towards  Hale, 
and  the  snow  was  covered  with  a  sooty  black. 
He  went  into  the  dingy  counting-house  once  or 
twice,  and  was  received  by  Mr.  Meade  with 
effusive  humility.  Mr.  Briggs  had  been  ousted. 
Wills  had  gone  to  Australia.  He  saw  the 
sample-book  on  his  desk,  and  yet  another  new 
boy  at  work  upon  it.  How  unsubstantial  the 
whole  thinof  seemed — like  some  half-remembered 
nightmare.  He  trapsed  about  in  the  slush  of 
Manchester,  up  and  down  the  streets  where  he 
used  to  run  errands  and  carry  parcels.  He  went 
to  a  favourite  second-hand  bookshop  of  his, 
where  he  had  spent  many  sixpences  and  shillings, 
saved  from  his  scanty  allowance  for  lunch- 
eon, and  bought  a  copy  of  Palmerin  d'Oliva's 
Mirrour  of  Nobilitie,  which  was  wanting  in 
Lord  Frederick's  library.  The  bookseller  did 
not  know  him  again,  and  my  father  was  not 
at  the  pains  to  make  himself  known.     He  went 


152  MY    FATHER    MARRIES 

into  St.  Chad's  and  St.  Augustine's,  where  he 
used  to  take  shelter  during  the  luncheon  half- 
hour  and  pray  and  read,  in  the  quiet  seclusion 
of  which,  too,  he  had  often  munched  his  roll 
and  piece  of  chocolate.  How  wonderful  it  all 
seemed  that  he  should  now  know  the  meaning 
of  a  Catholic  Church.  He  came  out  of  his 
dream  fit  and  thanked  God  devoutly  for  all 
His  mercies. 

Mr.  Walshe  stayed  at  Hale  until  the  business 
was  wound  up  and  the  estate  realised.  Of 
course  he  was  not  mentioned  in  the  will,  every- 
thing having  been  left  absolutely  to  my  grand- 
mother. She  found  herself  in  possession  of  an 
income  of  nearly  ;i^20oo  a  year,  derived  chiefly 
from  shares  in  the  Manchester,  Sheffield,  and 
Lincolnshire  Railway,  of  which  John  Walshe  had 
for  long  been  a  director.  It  is  to  her  credit 
that  she  made  my  father  an  allowance  of  ;^300 
a  year,  and  still  more  to  her  credit  that  she 
spontaneously  increased  this  allowance  to  ;£^400 
upon  his  marriage.  Of  course  there  was  some 
vague  talk  of  his  continuing  the  business,  but 
against  that  he  re.solutely  set  his  face,  and  the 
subject  speedily  droj)ped.  Mr.  Meade  started 
on   his    own   account,   and   succeeded    in    absorb- 


MY    FATHER'S    MARRIAGE  153 

ing  John  Walshe's  influential  connection.  He 
flourished  like  the  green  bay-tree.  And  so  the 
name  of  Walshe  departed  for  ever  from  the 
sphere  of  Manchester  commerce. 

My  father,  thus  unexpectedly  possessed  of 
money,  plucked  up  heart  of  grace  and  spoke  to 
Lord  Frederick  when  he  returned  to  Lucca. 
That  kind  father  and  benefactor  had  well  enough 
known  that  this  declaration  would  come  some 
day ;  nay,  he  had  even  made  every  arrange- 
ment for  the  marriage  had  my  father  never 
become  possessed  of  a  stiver.  As  for  Mary, 
she  had  loved  him  all  along  these  six  long 
years.  The  young  pair  were  married  with  some 
pomp  in  the  Duomo  of  Lucca  by  the  Archbishop 
himself  on  the  nth  November  1861,  the  Feast 
of  St.  Martin,  to  whom  that  noble  church  is 
dedicated.  They  spent  a  brief  honeymoon  in 
France,  visiting  Paray-le-Monial,  La  Salette, 
and  the  new  sanctuary  of  Lourdes,  and  then 
returned  to  the  Villa  Fabriani  for  a  few  years 
more  of  the  same  even,  tranquil  existence. 


CHAPTER   XII 

I     AM     BORN  —  LORD     FREDERICK     DIES MY     FATHER 

MOVES    TO    ASSISI 

It  was  about  six  months  after  his  marriage  that 
a  great  change  came  over  my  father.  To  speak 
strictly,  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  change  that 
grew  onward  and  upward,  steadily  maintaining 
itself,  steadily  increasing  in  force,  until,  in  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life,  it  had  reached  a  point 
of  very  significant  importance.  He  was  to  leave 
the  commandments  far  behind  him,  and  to  soar 
up,  if  still  clogged  with  some  o(  the  venial  faults 
to  which  the  soul  is  heir,  into  the  rarified  atmos- 
phere of  the  precepts.  It  was  about  six  months 
after  his  marriaq^e  that  he  first  came  across  the 
"  Fioretti  di  San  Francesco."  Lest  this  state- 
ment seem  strange  to  some  readers,  let  them 
remember  how  absorbed  he  had  been  in  certain 
set  studies.  The  "  Fioretii  "  worked  an  instant 
change  in  him.  The  gentle  figure  of  St.  I'rancis 
rose  up  before  him,  and  in  the  most  loving  manner 
accused    him   of  selfish    absorption    in    study,    of 

«54 


RELIGIOUS    AWAKENING  155 

undue  indulgence  of  "  Brother  Ass,"  the  body,  of 
a  niggardly  quantum  of  time  given  to  Almighty 
God,  of  a  total  neglect  of  Christ's  dear  friends, 
the  poor,  the  sick,  the  halt,  and  the  plague-stricken. 
Down  once  more  came  a  mighty  wave  of  feeling 
upon  him  :   he   could  have  fasted  on   bread  and 
water ;  he  could  have  kissed  the  sores  of  lepers, 
clothed  himself  in  rags,   and  begged   from   door 
to  door.      But   he   was  a  Catholic  now,  and   no 
longer  the  sport  of  mere  feeling  however  exalted. 
He  sought  the  counsel  of  Heaven  through  the 
confessional,  and  being  counselled,  began  a  new 
life,  which,  if  mortified  far  beyond  the  life  of  these 
years    of  study,    was   yet    conducted    with    such 
modesty  and  simplicity  as  almost  to  escape  the 
observation  of  those  of  his  own   household.     It 
is  the  tendency  of  modern  sanctity,  far  more  than 
of  mediaeval,  to  forego    an    act   of  mortification 
rather  than  have  it  become  known.     And  for  this 
reason   the   modern   sanctity   is,   in   a  sense,  the 
higher  sanctity,  just  because  it  is  so  often  obliged 
to  forego  acts  of  mortification,  and  is  thus  con- 
stantly exposed  to  a  drain  upon  its  main  gener- 
ating faculties,  for  there  can  be  no  sanctity  without 
voluntary    mortification.      Most    truly    doth    the 
Liber  Sapientice  say  that   the    corruptible    body 


156  I    AM    BORN 

is  a  load  upon  the  soul,  and  that  its  earthly  habi- 
tation oppresses  the  mind  of  him  who  museth 
upon  many  things/  The  soul's  great  need,  there- 
fore, is  to  nullify  the  weight  of  the  body,  and 
my  father  set  about  the  business  with  something 
like  mediaeval  rigours. 

The  effect  which  the  "  Fioretti  "  had  upon  him 
immediately  caused  him  to  read  more  about  St. 
Francis,  and  with  his  logical  mind  he  went 
straight  to  the  sources,  to  Thomas  of  Celano, 
the  Three  Companions,  and  St.  Bonaventure. 
Here  he  learned  his  true  vocation.  Just  as  St. 
Francis  had  changed  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life, 
so  now  St.  Francis  changed  the  whole  course 
of  his  studies.  He  had  learned  his  vocation, 
which  was  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  writing 
about  the  dear  Saint  and  his  Order.  All  his 
previous  studies  had  been  an  excellent  prepara- 
tion for  the  life's  work  which  he  had  now  found. 
Logic  and  scholastic  philosophy  kept  him  sane 
in  his  views  and  delivered  him  from  all  temp- 
tation to  crotchets  ;  Latin,  conjoined  to  palaeo- 
graphy, enabled  him  to  read  thirteenth-century 
codexes  with  com[)arative  ease  ;  genealogy  and 
chronology     helped     him      in     a     discriminating 

'  Wisd.  ix.  15. 


THE    STUDY    OF    ST.    FRANCIS        157 

arrangement  of  events  ;  bibliography  taught  him 
the  systematic  digestion  and  arrangement  of 
available  fundamental  matter ;  liturgical  and  her- 
aldic studies  gave  him  the  key  to  many  sym- 
bolic mysteries  of  the  keen  mediaeval  imagination. 
I  think  when  his  works  are  published  that  it 
will  be  found  that  he  has,  by  a  rare  instinct, 
singularly  illumined  the  history  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  His  own  intimate  life  was  that  of  a 
holy  person  of  the  Middle  Ages  in  word,  thought, 
and  deed :  he  saw  St.  Francis  with  the  eye  of 
an  admiring  contemporary  ;  he  thought  of  St. 
Francis  with  the  mind  of  an  intelligent  con- 
temporary ;  and,  like  a  holy  contemporary,  he 
was  not  over-troubled  by  the  evil  which  is  ever 
with  us,  and  is  especially  prone  to  invade  high 
places ;  while,  like  a  practical  contemporary, 
having  all  the  common  sense  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
he  was  fully  reconciled  to  the  inevitable  incon- 
venient du  bien,  which  the  wise  and  good  have 
sought  to  distribute,  but  only  the  foolish  and 
headstrong  have  attempted  to  eradicate.  A 
changed  atmosphere  indeed  from  the  blind,  un- 
regulated strivings  after  sanctity  of  his  child- 
hood at  Hale  and  his  boyhood  at  the  Searle 
House  Grammar  School. 


158  I    AM    BORN 

Six  months  or  thereabouts  after  the  change  in 
his  life  so  fervently  embraced,  and  the  commence- 
ment of  the  new  studies  so  eagerly  pursued,  my 
brother  and  I  came  into  the  world  at  one  birth. 
My  brother  being  the  first  born,  was  called  Francis 
after  the  Saint,  and  Michael,  not  after  the  Arch- 
angel, but  after  the  Spanish  ecstatic,  San  Miguel 
de  los  Santos  or  St.  Michael  of  the  Saints,  who 
in  the  year  of  our  birth  had  been  canonised  by 
Pius  IX/  According  to  the  beautiful  legend, 
Michael  was  of  so  great  natural  purity  of  heart 
that  our  Lord  assumed  unto  Himself  the  Saint's 
natural  heart  during  his  lifetime,  and  gave  him  a 
mystical  heart  with  which  to  end  his  days.  He 
is  the  Saint  who  most  eminently  symbolises 
change  of  heart,  and  change  of  heart  was  at  that 
time  uppermost  in  my  father's  thoughts.  Besides, 
he  ever  loved  to  honour  the  newest  Saints.  I 
was  called  Philip,  not  after  the  Apostle  of  the 
two  Phrygias,  but  after  the  Apostle  of  Rome,  St. 
Philip  Neri  ;  and  y^gidius,  not  after  St.  Giles  the 

'  St.  Michael,  whose  family  name  was  Argemir,  was  born  on  the 
29th  September  1591,  at  the  little  town  of  Vich,  in  Catalonia.  At 
a  tender  age  he  entered  the  Order  of  the  Most  Holy  Trinity  for 
the  Redemption  of  Captives  {/ini;;ua  laica :  Crutchcd  Friars),  and 
died  at  Valladolid  on  the  loth  April  1625.  He  was  one  of  the 
most  astounding  ecstatics  in  the  whole  range  of  hagiography,  and 
the  strange  phenomena  of  his  ecstasies  are  perhaps  better  within 
reach  of  proof  than  any  other  case  of  the  kind. — I'.  A\.  W. 


LAST   ILLNESS   OF   LORD    FREDERICK     159 

Hermit,  but  after  the  great  ecstatic,  the  Blessed 
^gidius,  one  of  the  first  companions  of  St. 
Francis,  for  whose  profound  sayings  and  holy  life 
my  father  had  the  greatest  admiration.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  he  would  have  liked  to  have  given 
us  one  family  name  apiece  as  well  as  a  patronal 
name,  but,  as  will  be  seen  hereafter,  he  knew 
nothing  of  his  father  nor  of  any  family  name 
save  the  John  of  our  grandfather. 

Our  young  lives  were  to  be  the  herald  of  death. 
Lord  Frederick  Markham  had  been  ailing  for 
the  past  year  or  two,  and  he  died  six  months 
after  my  birth.  He  was  conscious  to  the  very 
end,  and  received  the  last  Sacraments  in  peaceful 
fervour  and  with  every  demonstration  of  a  lively 
faith.  The  Blessed  Sacrament  was  brought  to 
him  from  the  tabernacle  in  the  little  chapel  in 
the  "bosco,"  where  he  had  for  so  many  years 
provided  for  its  reverent  reservation.  The 
peasants  on  the  poderi  had  ceased  work,  and 
were  collected  in  great  numbers  inside  and 
outside  the  chapel.  The  priest,  bearing  his  price- 
less Burden  in  the  pyx,  and  accompanied  by  a  boy 
holding  over  him  a  quaint  old  yellow  ombrellino, 
was  followed  to  the  foot  of  the  perron  by  the 
motley  crowd  of  contadini,  all  praying  that  the 
Lord    of    heaven,    in    His    quality    of    Divine 


i6o  I    AM    BORN 

Physician,  would  spare  their  beloved  master  for 
many  years  to  come.  Lord  Frederick  had  first 
sent  for  us  two  babies,  and  given  us  his  blessing. 
It  seems  that  I  crowed  at  him  and  clapped  my 
hands  at  him,  as  if  rejoicing  with  him  upon  some 
joyful  event.  Then  he  made  his  last  confession 
and  received  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  and  after  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  thanksgiving  and  recollec- 
tion, he  sent  for  my  father  and  mother.  They 
knelt  on  either  side  of  the  bed,  my  father  on 
the  right  side  and  my  mother  on  the  left.  He 
rested  his  hand  upon  my  father's  head  in  the  act 
of  blessing,  and  from  his  lips  there  fell,  but  over 
and  over  again,  those  words  which  had  for  ever 
been  engraven  on  my  father's  heart.  "My  dear, 
dear  boy!  My  dear,  dear  boy!"  Then  rallying 
for  a  moment,  he  stretched  his  hands  out  on  either 
side  of  the  bed,  and  taking  one  of  their  hands 
in  each  of  his,  said  in  Italian,  "  Arrivederci  in 
Paradiso ! "  And  then  with  a  sicrh  and  a  smile 
he  fell  peacefully  asleep. 

His  death  caused  the  greatest  consternation 
and  grief  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  funeral 
was  a  great  affair,  about  which  the  old  peasants 
still  talk  to  this  day.  My  father,  with  his  accu- 
rate historic  instincts,  was  determined  that  all  due 
honour  should  be  paid  to  one  in  death  whom  he 


LORD  FREDERICK'S  LYING  IN  STATE   i6i 

had  so  honoured  in  life.      Besides,  popular  senti- 
ment required  it.       Lord   Frederick's   body  was 
carried  from  his  own  modest   little  room  to  the 
great  red  damask  bedroom,  which  had  never  been 
used  since  the  Duke  of  Lucca  slept  there  in  the 
late    Count  Fabriani's    time.      There,  upon    the 
great  four-post  eighteenth-century  bedstead,  hung 
with    red    damask   and   covered   with  a  damask 
coverlid,  Lord  Frederick's  body  was  laid  out  in 
state.      Six  lighted  candles  in  tall  rococo  candle- 
sticks stood  round  the  bed.     On  a  prie-dieu  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  two  Religious  kept  watch,  saying 
the   Office  of  the   Dead.       Lord   Frederick   had 
been  a  Knight  of  St.  Stephen,  the  last  English- 
man  to   be  invested  ere  the   suppression  of  that 
Order   of  Chivalry    in    1859.       The    body    was 
therefore  dressed  in   the  imposing  cappa  magna 
of  the   Knights.      It  was   of  white   camlet  lined 
with  red  silk,  and  having  a  large  red  silken  cross 
of  Maltese  shape  affixed  on  the  left  side.     'Twas 
a  fitting  shroud  for  one  who  in  his  charities  had 
been  a  true  knight-errant.     The  peasants  of  the 
poderi,  nay,   hundreds   of  poor   people  from   the 
country  round  about  (for  Lord  Frederick's  chari- 
ties had  penetrated  far  and  wide),  flocked  to  the 
villa,  and  reverently  defiled  through  the  red  room 
where  the  body  was  lying  in  state.     There  wsa 


i62  I    AM    BORN 

scarce  a  tear  from  any  one  :  the  sight  of  that  peace- 
ful, smiling,  serene  figure  aroused  awe  and  wonder, 
but  checked  all  thought  of  sorrow  for  the  moment. 
It  was  not  until  the  coffin,  bearing  his  knightly 
insignia,  was  carried  down  the  steps  of  the  perron 
by  eight  masked  brothers  of  the  Archconfraternity 
of  the  Misericordia,  that  the  poor  friends  whom  he 
had  so  loved  and  benefited  broke  down  and  burst 
into  loud  lamentations,  "Padrone!  padrone!  Mio 
povero  padrone  !  Mio  caro  padrone  !  La  Madonna 
I'accompagni !  Iddio  le  conceda  il  bene  del  Para- 
diso ! "  Their  cries  were  drowned  by  the  roll  of 
the  drums  of  the  village  band.  The  procession 
had  formed  up,  and  began  slowly  to  defile  down 
the  stately  avenue  of  maples,  to  the  solemn 
accompaniment  of  the  drums.  Then  came  the 
warning  clash  of  the  cymbals  ;  the  drums  ceased 
and  the  band  broke  out  into  one  of  those  slow, 
long-drawn-out,  thrilling  funeral  marches  of  which 
no  one  knows  the  date  or  authorship.' 

'  My  friend  has  somehow  fallen  into  error  in  trying  to  repro- 
duce the  march  played  at  Lord  F'rcderick  Markham's  funeral, 
how  I  know  not.  Hut  the  march  that  I  find  attached  to  the 
MS.  is  very  well  knf)wn  to  me.  It  is  not  of  unknown  date  or 
authorship,  but  was  written  by  the  Livornese  maestro,  Oreste 
Carlini  (still  happily  alive),  in  the  year  1880.  I  am  free  to  admit, 
however,  that  it  is  a  thoroughly  typical  specimen  of  the  sweet, 
serene,  sanguine  funeral  march  of  Tuscany,  and  that  I  should 
have  felt  no  astonishment  in  being  told  that  its  author's  name 
had  not  rome  down  to  posterity. — M.  C. 


A  TUSCAN  FUNERAL  MARCH  163 


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The   music    ceased    abruptly,    and    again    the 
sound  of  lamentations  arose :  "Padrone!  padrone! 


i64  1    AM    BORN 

padrone!  Mio  caro  padrone!  Iddio  Ic  bene- 
dica  !  La  Madonna  I'accompagni !  "  The  roll 
of  the  drums  drowned  these  pathetic  lamenta- 
tions, and  continued  for  a  while ;  aq'ain  came 
the  warning  clash  of  the  cymbals,  and  once 
more  the  sweet  piercing  notes  of  the  funeral 
march  ranor  out.  There  is  no  ijloom  about  a 
Tuscan  funeral  march,  but  always  an  inspirit- 
ing melody  of  surest  hope  ;  for  while  the  Tuscan 
peasant  knows  it  to  be  unreasonable,  nay,  absurd, 
to  suppose  that  he  or  any  other  human  being 
should  go  straight  from  a  life  spotted  by  sin 
into  God's  perfect  paradise,  he  believes  in 
purgatory  where  the  soul's  stains  are  washed 
away  ;  and  so  his  funeral  marches,  if  they  express 
sorrow  for  the  transitiis  of  one  dear  to  him,  are 
yet  sweet  and  free  from  gloom,  and  have  no 
note  about  them  of  fnial   irreparable  calamity. 

Hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  peasants,  cheek 
by  jowl  with  the  gentry,  followed  the  hearse, 
with  its  black  horses  and  bagwigged  coachman, 
and  after  the  walkers  came  the  empty  carriages 
of  the  Lucchese  nobility.  In  Italy  it  is  the 
custom  to  show  respect  l(^  the  dead  by  walking 
at  a  funeral  :  carriages  only  follow  to  bring  their 
owners  home   again.      Lord    Frederick   was   laid 


MY  MOTHER'S  DEATH  165 

to  rest  in  the  Misericordia  section  of  the  Campo 
Santo  outside  Lucca,  and  there  is  a  handsome 
monument  over  the  grave  with  a  creditable 
medallion  of  him,  his  arms  (my  father  took  care 
of  that),  and  the  text:  '' Beati  mortui  qui  in 
Domino  moriuntur.''  His  pure  and  generous 
soul,  I  am  sure,  soon  came  to  its  eternal  rest  ; 
but  we  have  never  missed  the  month's  mind 
for  him. 

My  poor  mother,  prostrated  already  by  griev- 
ous sufferings  at  our  birth,  never  recovered  the 
blow  of  her  father's  death,  and  soon  followed 
him  to  the  grave.  As  for  my  father,  I  can  best 
measure  the  depth  of  his  grief  by  his  complete 
silence  on  this  terrible  event  in  the  "  Recollec- 
tions" and  the  "Diary."  Nor  did  he  ever 
allude  to  it  in  speech,  nor  had  I  ever  again 
the  courage  to  speak  to  him  of  my  mother's 
death  after  witnessing  his  pathetic  breakdown 
the  first  and  only  time  I  ever  did  so. 

My  grandmother  could  not  resist  so  fine  an 
occasion  for  tears  and  sentimental  moral  lessons. 
She  hurried  out  to  Italy  to  "  console  "  her  son 
and  "look  after"  his  "motherless  babes."  It 
was  an  unhappy,  uncomfortable,  impossible  ar- 
rangement,  full   of  humiliations    for   my  father; 


1 66  I    AM    BORN 

but  he  bore  it  with  an  heroic  resignation  that 
was  never  allowed  to  declare  itself.  Resigna- 
tion which  is  obvious  ceases  to  be  resignation. 
My  grandmother's  sentimental  grief  soon  oozed 
away,  and  in  three  months,  or  less,  she  was 
glad  to  return  to  the  old  house  at  Hale  and  to 
the  considerable  court  which  the  wives  of  the 
bourgeois  traders  of  the  place  were  ever  ready 
to  pay  to  so  veritable  a  grande  dame.  My 
father  had  inherited  the  Villa  Fabriani,  the 
library,  and  a  portion  of  Lord  Frederick's  for- 
tune ;  but  life  at  the  villa  became  intolerable  to 
him  after  his  great  bereavement.  Besides,  in 
the  midst  of  his  grief  he  had  not  lost  sight  of 
the  life's  work  which  he  had  set  himself,  and 
he  had  to  consider  what  course  of  life  would 
best  serve  that.  So  he  shut  up  the  villa,  and 
after  making  proper  provision  for  the  working 
of  the  poderi,  he  moved  to  Assisi,  the  centre 
of  his  thoughts,  and  there  he  lived  a  saintly, 
studious,  uneventful  life  until  the  eventful  saintly 
end   of  his  studious  days. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MY    FATHER    GOES    TO    SEE    THE    POPE 

Before  going  to  Assisi  my  father  went  to  Rome 
to  seek  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter's  successor. 
He  felt  the  need  of  a  new  force  to  support  him 
in  his  labours  and  to  console  him  in  his  great 
grief.  Of  that  memorable  visit  he  shall  him- 
self, in  his  own  words,  tell  the  moving  story. 
Some  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  strong 
emotion  under  which  he  was  labouring  at  the 
time. 

•'  It  was  on  the  Epiphany  of  this  year  of 
grace,"  he  writes,  "that  I  first  assisted  at  the 
Holy  Father's  Mass.  About  a  hundred  other 
persons  were  present,  the  women  all  clad  in 
black  with  black  veils  over  their  heads,  the 
men  in  frac  or  uniform.  We  sat  close-huddled 
upon  narrow  wooden  benches  covered  with  green 
cloth ;  I  have  been  more  comfortable  in  the 
rudest  village  church.  Indeed,  the  severity  of 
everything   in   the  Vatican  soon   impresses ;  we 

have    heard   it    called    a    palace    and    think    of 

167 


i68        MY   FATHER  VISITS  THE   POPE 

luxury  ;  there  is  much  state  if  you  will,  but  no- 
where a  trace  of  luxury.  'Tis  a  curious  infir- 
mity of  the  modern  mind  that  it  is  often  unable 
to  distinguish  between  state  and  luxury  ;  there 
are  good  people  who  seem  to  think  that  because 
the  Pope's  cassock  is  made  of  taffetas  and  his 
slipper  of  velvet,  he  is  therefore  a  luxury-loving 
sybarite.  That  the  state  and  ceremony  of  the 
semi-public  life  of  highly  placed  ecclesiastics 
has  come  into  being  solely  because  of  the  rela- 
tion in  which  they  stand  to  Almighty  God,  we 
cannot  of  course  expect  them  to  believe  ;  but 
that  they  should  cavil  at  state  in  a  great  king- 
dom like  God's  Church  upon  earth,  and  acclaim 
and  approve  it  even  in  the  petty  officers  of  a 
temporal  dominion,  is  a  striking  instance  of  that 
topsy-turveydom  of  mind  which  is  fast  becoming 
one  of  the  gravest  dangers  of  the  day. 

"  Mass  was  said  in  the  Sala  ciegli  Arazzi  (not 
to  be  confounded  with  the  Gallcria  dcgli  Ai'azzi^ 
a  big  square  room,  beautiful  but  severe  in  its 
decorations.  The  Holy  Father  entered  at  eight 
o'clock  and  passed  to  the  altar  steps,  sprinkling 
us  with  the  aspergillum  as  he  went.  It  is 
really  a  moment  of  excitement  to  any  one, 
whatever    his   belief,   to   look    for   the   first   time 


THE   HOLY  FATHER'S  MASS  169 

upon  a  living  Pope.  Let  any  one,  whatever 
his  belief,  ask  himself  who  is  the  most  impor- 
tant man  on  earth,  and  candour  will  constrain 
him  to  answer,  the  Pope  of  Rome.  There  is 
no  priest  or  potentate,  no  king  or  emperor,  no 
man  of  letters  or  man  of  science,  no  leader  of 
political  or  religious  movements,  that  may  com- 
pare for  an  instant  with  the  Pope  in  importance 
of  any  and  every  description  :  a  characteristic, 
by  the  way,  which  reason  would  naturally  pre- 
dicate of  Christ's  Vicar,  if  indeed  He  should 
have  appointed  a  Vicegerent  upon  earth.  The 
thought  rushed  into  my  mind  as  I  knelt  to 
receive  the  Holy  Father's  passing  benediction, 
and  I  blessed  God  that  He  had  set  His  Church 
upon  a  hill,  and  endowed  her,  in  pity  of  our 
weakness,  with  so  many  marks  that  convinced 
and  compelled  even  pure  and  absolute  reason. 

"The  Holy  Father  knelt  at  a  prie-dieu  before 
the  altar,  and,  after  saying  the  preces  ante  missam, 
was  vested.  His  Mass  was  served  by  two 
priests.  The  Holy  Father's  enunciation  is 
wonderfully  distinct  and  impressive.  To  hear 
him  say  Mass  is  a  new  lesson  in  the  interior 
meaning  of  the  Holy  Sacrifice.  Every  word 
seems   an    intense   supplication.      In   the   Pater 


i-jo        MY    FATHER   VISITS  THE   POPE 

Nosier,  when  I  thought  of  his  high  schemes  for 
the  regenenition  of  mankind,  his  Adve7tiat  regniwi 
imim  seemed  to  take  new  shape  and  meaning  ; 
and  when  I  thought  of  all  his  sufferings  and 
anxieties,  his  fervent  Fiat  voliinfas  tua  seemed 
impregnate  with  the  supernatural  resignation  of 
Gethsemane.  What  a  pathetic  cry  for  mercy 
was  not  the  Ky^^ie  Eleison ;  what  a  hymn  of 
praise  the  Gloria  in  excelsis ;  what  an  act  of 
faith  the  Credo;  what  awe  and  veneration  in  the 
Doniinc  nan  sum  dignus  !  And  when  his  hand 
went  up  in  the  final  blessing  he  paused  a  long 
while,  seeniing  to  wrest  from  Heaven  by  sheer 
violence  Heaven's  benediction  for  our  starving 
souls  :  Benedicat  vos  .  .  .  Oynnipotens  Deus  .  .  . 
Pater  .  .  .  et  Filius  .  .  .  ^ft  Spiritus  Sanctus ! 
A  great  Amen  welled  up  in  all  our  hearts  as  we 
rose,  refreshed  and  strengthened,  to  confess  our 
faith  in   the  last  gospel. 

"The  Pope  always  hears  a  Mass  in  thanksgiving 
for  the  one  he  has  said,  and  those  who  have  been 
privileged  to  assist  at  it  arc  also  allowed  to 
remain  for  this  second  Mass.  He  knelt  at  the 
same  [)rie-dieu  in  front  of  the  altar,  and  was 
soon  far  away  from  his  surroundings.  Something 
seemed  to  have  moved  him  profoundly  that  day. 


THE   HOLY  FATHER'S  AUDIENCE      171 

Perhaps,  though,  it  is  his  habitual  demeanour. 
I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  I  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  soul  rapt,  absorbed,  in  an  inten- 
sity of  prayer,  yet  wrestling,  struggling,  keenly 
suffering.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  was 
not  his  habitual  demeanour,  that  something  must 
have  moved  him  profoundly  that  day  ;  that  the 
wickedness  of  the  world,  the  heartlessness  of 
man,  the  perfidy  of  princes,  the  dark  prevail- 
ing irreligion  and  indifference,  the  sufferings  of 
Christ's  Church  and  the  heavy  burdens  of  his 
Vicar,  must  have  risen  up  before  him  that 
Epiphany  morn  in  a  more  than  ordinarily  lumi- 
nous vision. 

"  The  Mass  of  thanksgiving  concluded,  the 
Holy  Father  seated  himself  on  a  chair  placed 
on  the  predella,  and  received  each  person 
present.  Families  of  three  or  four  persons,  or 
three  or  four  members  of  a  religious  order  who 
had  come  together,  were  received  in  groups,  so 
as  to  shorten  a  little  the  ceremony  of  presenta- 
tion. All  knelt  and  reverently  kissed  the  hand 
and  foot  of  St.  Peter's  successor,  and  all  remained 
kneeling  while  he  conversed  with  them.  A 
chamberlain  stood  on  either  hand  of  the  Pope. 
The    one    on    the    right    hand    supervised    the 


172        MY  FATHER  VISITS  THE   POPE 

presentations,  the  one  on  the  left  saw  that  none 
of  us  exceeded  a  just  measure  of  time,  and  in 
nep.rly  every  case  it  seemed  necessary  for  him 
gently  to  raise  the  kneeling  suppliant  by  the 
elbow  in  polite  signification  that  it  was  time  to 
depart. 

"What  a  contrast  the  Holy  Father  was  through- 
out this  familiar  ceremony  to  the  bowed,  suffering, 
recollected  figure  that  had  knelt  in  the  intensity 
of  prayer  at  the  prie-dieu.  A  venerable  old  man 
full  of  a  quiet  dignity,  fatherly  in  the  extreme, 
affable,  cheerful,  courteous,  radiating  a  serene  be- 
nignity and  kindliness  that  set  us  all  laughing 
and  crying  by  turns.  Instinctively  there  rose  to 
my  mind  the  words  of  the  Count  de  Maistre  when 
first  he  saw  Pius  VII.,  and  was  so  dumbfounded 
by  his  simplicity  and  humility:  'J'ai  cru  voir 
St.  Pierre  au  lieu  de  son  successeur.'  I,  too, 
seemed  to  see  St.  Peter  rather  than  his  successor  ; 
for  if  St.  Peter  in  the  rude  primitive  age  of  the 
Church  had  been  receiving  a  small  band  of  the 
faithful,  he  could  not  have  done  so  with  more 
humility,  less  state,  and  greater  love  and  en- 
couragement ;  nor  would  the  issues  depending 
upon  his  words  have  seemed  more  real  and 
momentous  than  did  the  stern   importance  of  the 


THE  CHURCH   IN   LITTLE  173 

Catholicism  of  to-day,  suddenly  illumined  for 
me  with  new  proofs  of  its  truth  and  saving 
mission. 

"  To  each  one  of  us  the  Holy  Father  contrived 
to  address  a  few  words,  and  that  with  so  obvi- 
ously heartfelt  an  interest  in  our  welfare,  we 
might  have  constituted  the  whole  of  his  spiritual 
family.  Though  there  were  only  a  hundred  of 
us  present,  it  seemed  as  if  no  nation  of  the  earth 
was  unrepresented :  the  gathering  was  indeed 
the  Church  in  little.  Americans,  English,  Scotch, 
Irish,  Germans,  Austrians,  Poles,  Spaniards, 
Italians, — all  were  there,  and  all  received  a 
fatherly  word  that  left  abiding  strength  and 
consolation.  There  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  all 
the  assembly. 

"  I  was  almost  the  last  to  be  presented.  I 
thought  of  many  things  I  should  like  to  say, 
and  of  what  I  might  hear  in  reply,  but  a  traitor 
lump  in  my  throat  deprived  me  of  all  possi- 
bility of  connected  speech.  I  looked  up  from 
my  knees,  as  through  a  mist,  into  the  benign, 
reassuring  face  with  its  recent  traces  of  spiritual 
suffering,  and  could  do  no  more  than  choke  out 
a  faltering  request  for  the  apostolic  benediction 
upon  me  and   my   motherless    boys.      Hastily    I 


174        MY  FATHER  VISITS  THE   POPE 

kissed  the  Holy  Father's  hand  and  foot,  and 
alone  of  all  the  company,  perhaps,  hurried  away 
of  my  own  motion  without  feeling  the  kindly 
chamberlain's  admonitory  hand  upon  my  elbow. 

"  But  I  had  not  knelt  in  vain.  '  E  accordata  ! ' 
the  Holy  Father  had  said  in  answer  to  my 
prayer  for  his  blessing,  and  it  will  be  my  own 
most  grievous  fault  if  it  do  not  rest  upon  me 
through  life,  unto  life's  evening,  and  in  the  hour 
of  my  death.*     Amen. 

"'O  sainte  eglise  romaine ! '  cried  Bossuet 
on  a  memorable  occasion,  '  O  sainte  Eglise 
romaine !  si  je  t'oublie,  puisse-je  m'oublier  moi- 
meme !  que  ma  langue  se  seche  et  demeure 
immobile  dans  ma  bouche  ! ' 

"'O  sainte  eglise  de  Rome!'  cries  the  Count 
de  Maistre  in  his  famous  peroration  to  Du  Pape, 
'  O  sainte  eglise  de  Rome !  tant  que  la  parole 
me  sera  conservee,  jc  I'emploierai  pour  te  ct^le- 
brer.  Je  te  salue,  mere  immortelle  de  la  science 
et  de  la  saintete  ! ' 

"O  Holy  Roman  Church!  (if  indeed  the  low- 
liest of  thy  sons  may  be  permitted  lo  join  in 
the  chorus  of  thy  holders),  O  Holy  Roman 
Church,  I,  too,  may  I  forget  myself  if  I  forget 
thee   and  all    ihy   benefits !     And   if   I   prefer  not 


O  HOLY  ROMAN  CHURCH!  175 

thee  above  my  chief  joy,  may  my  tongue  cleave 
to  the  roof  of  my  mouth  and  my  right  hand 
forget  her  cunning!  O  Holy  Roman  Church! 
ground  and  pillar  of  truth,  I  will  be  faithful 
to  thee  until  death!  No  sophisms  of  the  new 
learning,  no  fallacies  of  the  new  science,  no 
allurements  of  the  new  polity,  shall  wean  me 
of  my  loyalty  to  him  who  is  the  centre  and 
source  of  thy  visible  unity !  O  immortal  Mother 
of  Saints,  into  thy  keeping  do  I  commend  my 
soul  upon  earth,  because  thou  alone  upon  earth 
canst  surely  lead  my  soul  into  paradise.  At 
the  feet  of  the  Vicegerent  of  God  upon  earth 
do  I  pay  homage  and  proffer  allegiance,  because 
he  alone  upon  earth  has  divine  authority  to 
guide  and  command  me.  In  the  stir  and  stress 
of  the  terrible  time  that  the  vices  of  man  are 
preparing  for  the  children  of  men,  blessed  is 
he  who  has  found  shelter  under  thy  wing ; 
blessed  is  he  whose  foot  resteth  upon  the  rock 
of  thy  truth.  His  soul  shall  be  restored ;  he 
shall  be  led  into  the  paths  of  justice  ;  he  need 
fear  no  evil,  for  thy  rod  and  thy  staff  shall 
comfort  him.  Goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow 
him  all  the  days  of  his  life,  and  he  shall  dwell 
in  the  house  of  the  Lord  for  ever." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

MY    FATHER    SETTLES    AT    ASSISI — OF    THE    EVEN 
TENOR    OF    HIS    LH-E    THERE 

We  lived  in  a  big  stone  house  at  Assisi.  It 
may  sound  grandiose,  but  to  be  correct,  I  ought 
to  call  it  a  palazzo.  The  house  was  situated 
high  up  in  this  city  set  upon  a  hill,  and  the 
windows  at  the  back  commanded  a  glorious 
view  of  proud  Perugia  and  the  Umbrian  plains. 
More  than  one  cardinal  had  been  born  within 
its  stately  precincts,  and  the  family  to  which 
it  had  belonged  counted  a  sixteenth-century 
Pope  among  its  members.  A  Londoner  would 
smile  if  he  knew  how  low  was  the  rent  we 
paid  for  this  palace,  and  yet  it  was  vast 
enough  for  a  royal  reception.  My  father,  how- 
ever, had  no  thought  of  holding  receptions  :  he 
took  a  big  house  because  he  required  space  for 
his  books.  The  whole  of  the  first  floor  was  a 
hu'T^e  library  ;  the  very  lobbies  were  lined  from 
floor  to  ceiling  with  books.      TIic  room   in  which 

he    habitually   worked    contained    the    library   of 

176 


MY  FATHER'S  LIBRARY  177 

Franciscan  books  which  I  take  to  have  been 
the  most  complete  of  its  kind  in  the  world. 
Among  the  folios  he  had  all  five  volumes  of 
De  Gubernatis'  Chronicle,^  and  Wadding,  in- 
cluding the  scarce  twentieth  volume ;  ^  the  fi.ve 
editions  of  the  Conformitates ;  the  seven  editions 
of  the  Speculum  Vitce  Beati  Francis ci  et  Soci- 
orum  ejus.  But  the  rarity  which  perhaps  most 
of  all  excited  the  envy  of  his  scholarly  friends 
was  a  little  octavo  of  but  twenty-four  sheets,  an 
edition  of  the  Sacrum  Commercmm  Beati  Fran- 
cisci  cum  Domina  Paupertate,  printed  at  Milan 
in  1539.  During  his  lifetime  the  copy  was  be- 
lieved to  be  unique,  but  Pere  Francois  Van  Ortroy, 
the  noted  Bollandist,  has  since  discovered  a  copy 
in  the  Ambrosian  Library  at  Milan. ^ 

^  Padre  Marcellino  da  Civezza  in  his  Bibliografia  Sanfrancescana 
(1879)  states  that  in  all  Italy  he  had  never  found  the  five  volumes 
together.  This  is  no  doubt  owing  to  the  fact  that  vols,  i.,  iii., 
iv.,  and  v.  were  printed  at  Rome  (1681,  1684,  1685,  1689),  and 
vol.  ii.  at  Lyons  (1685).  I  have  myself,  however,  found  the  five 
volumes  complete  in  the  Communal  Libraries  of  Assisi  and  Leg- 
horn. It  is  only  right  to  add  that  the  Assisi  Library  was  buried 
away  in  wooden  cases  when  Padre  Marcellino  was  making  his 
researches. — M.  C. 

2  Nearly  the  whole  of  the  edition  of  vol.  xx.,  printed  at  Rome 
in  1794,  was  destroyed  by  fire.  It  has  since,  to  the  great  con- 
venience of  scholars,  been  reprinted  by  the  Franciscan  Fathers  in 
their  noble  printing  press  at  Quaracchi,near  Florence  (1899). — M.C. 

^  See  Miscellanea  Francescana,  vol.  viii.  p.  27,  and  Analecta 
Bollandiana,  vol.  xix.  p.  460. 

M 


178      MY   FATHER  SETTLES  AT  ASSISI 

Before  he  had  arrived  at  Assisi,  Mr.  VValshe 
had  become  a  Franciscan  Tertiary,  or,  to  speak 
more  precisely,  he  had  taken  the  first  step 
towards  becoming  one,  having  been  clothed  as 
a  Novice  at  Monte  Santii  Maria,  near  Lucca.* 
His  profession  he  made  at  the  Porziuncola  in 
the  little  hut  where  St.  Francis  died,  and  on 
the  Feast  of  St.  Francis,  4th  October  1863.  It 
is  the  custom  of  members  of  the  Third  Order  to 
take  a  name  in  religion  when  they  first  join  the 
Order,  and  my  father  took  the  name  of  Leo,  not 
only  because  of  his  devotion  to  the  Blessed  Leo, 
St.  Francis'  secretary  and  confessor,  but  because 
it  was  for  him  that  the  Seraphic  Benediction  was 
written,  and  my  father  would  delight  in  the 
fancy  that  its  concluding  words  were  addressed 
to  himself  directly  :  DomJnus  benedicat  te,  frater 
Leo.  When  first  he  developed  his  love  for  St. 
F"rancis  my  mother  had  given  him  an  exquisite 
little  picture  of  the  Saint,  which  had  been  in  the 
Fabriani  family  for  centuries.  It  is  a  painting 
on  copper  only  2\  by  2^  inches  in  size,  and  is 
assuredly  a  work  ol  the  early  fifteenth  century, 
if  not  older.      In   his   left  hand  the   Saint  holds 

•  The  "clothinR"  consists  of  a  small  scapular  and  coid,  which 
are  always  worn,  thouj^h  not  so  as  to  be  visible.  Tertiarics  may  be 
buried  in  the  full  F"ranciscan  habit  if  they  choose. —  M.  C. 


VERA  EFFIGIES  SANCTI   FRANCISCI     179 

a  red  book  bearing  the  inscription  in  characters 
of  a  later  age,  "Vera  S.F.E."  :  Vera  Sancti 
Francisci  Effigies ;  while  his  right  hand  almost 
seems  to  be  raised  in  the  act  of  blessing.  There 
are  one  or  two  famous  portraits  of  St.  Francis,  in 
which  he  is  lifting  his  hand  as  if  to  show  the  wound 
in  it.  Perhaps  no  more  than  that  was  intended 
by  the  artist  of  this  little  picture,  but  certainly 
it  does  seem  to  breathe  a  blessing,  and  a  bless- 
ing my  father  would  always  see  in  it.  Indeed,  to 
him,  since  St.  Francis  was  in  the  act  of  blessing, 
he  could  only  be  imparting  that  triple  benediction 
so  peculiarly  associated  with  his  name.  Therefore 
in  the  broad  frame  which  surrounds  the  picture 
he  inserted  a  scroll  under  glass,  upon  which  was 
written  beneath  a  Cross  Tau  : — 

Jube,  domne,  benedicere. 

Benedict io  Seraphica. 

Benedicat  tibi  Dominus  et  custodial  te  : 

Ostendat  faciem  suam  tibi  et  misereatur  tui  : 

Convertat  vultum  suum  ad  te  et  det  tibi  pacem. 

Dominus  benedicat  te,  frater  Leo. 

At  first  he  used  to  keep  the  picture  in  his 
Oratory,  but  afterwards  he  placed  it  on  the 
landing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  that  all  who 
passed  might  ask  the  Seraphic  Benediction.  A 
little  lamp  constantly  burned  before  it,  and  I  can 


i8o      MY   FATHER   SETTLES  AT  ASSISI 

remember  that  my  brother  and  I,  in  the  midst  of 
our  childish  romps,  used  to  stop  in  awe  in  front 
of  the  picture  and  whisper  a  fube,  domne,  bene- 
dicere.  Thus  was  St.  Francis  impressed  on  my 
heart  and  mind  even  from  my  earliest  days. 

In  the  days  when  Mr.  W'alshc  was  received 
into  the  Third  Order  the  older  and  severer  Rule 
of  Pope  Nicholas  IV.  was  still  in  force.  The 
present  modifications  in  the  Rule  were  first 
introduced  by  Pope  Leo  XIII.  in  the  Apostolic 
Constitution  "  Misericors  Dei  P  ilius,"  dated  30th 
May  1883,  Tertiaries  under  the  old  Rule  were 
bound  to  a  daily  recital  of  the  whole  Office  of  the 
Church  or  of  the  Office  of  Our  Lady  ;  under  the 
modified  Rule,  twelve  Paters,  Aves,  and  Glorias 
may  take  the  place  of  either  Office.  To  the  end 
of  his  days,  however,  when  not  prevented  by 
sickne.ss  or  duty  to  his  neij^hbour,  my  father  daily 
recited  the  whole  Office  of  the  Church  ;  his  skill 
in  liturgical  science  made  the  task  easy,  his 
devout  imaj^ination  found  new  beauties  in  it 
every  day.  The  Divine  Office  readily  wearies 
the  lancTuid  and  lukewarm  ;  the  devout  and  the 
ascetic  find  in  it  every  day  a  fresh  incentive  to 
devotion.  The  more  they  repeat  it  the  better 
they  love  it  ;  for  after  all.  'tis   composed  almost 


THE  DIVINE  OFFICE  i8i 

entirely  of  God's  word,  and  he  who  should  find 
God's  word  wearisome  stands  self-condemned  of 
his  own  folly  and  emptiness ;  the  palate  of  the 
God-given  part  of  him  has  lost  all  savour  of 
celestial  sweetness.  My  father  kept  before  him 
the  precepts  of  the  great  Cardinal  Bona,  and 
more  especially  of  the  "  De  Disciplina  Psallendi " 
in  the  Divina  Psalmodia,  and  under  this  ascetical 
guidance  derived  a  constant  new  relish  from  the 
Divine  Office.  But  even  up  to  the  last  year  of 
his  life  he  would  suddenly  discover  that  he  had 
only  then  just  become  illuminated  as  to  the  real 
interior  meaning  of  some  verse  in  the  Psalms 
which  he  had  daily  been  repeating  for  so  many 
years.  The  diurnal  recital  of  the  Canonical 
Hours  was  to  him  an  exercise  in  contemplation  ; 
at  the  back  (so  to  speak)  of  each  verse  of  a 
psalm,  of  every  versicle  and  responsory,  of  all 
the  antiphons,  was  his  own  parallel  meditation 
or  concept,  more  vivid  and  varying  some  days 
than  others,  but  always  a  sweet  exercise  of 
Divine  Praise,  a  loving  flight  of  the  imagination 
into  the  Realms  of  the  Divine  Being,  a  further 
step  in  the  sublime  science  of  Divine  Perfection. 
Indeed,  the  Psalter,  which  had  sustained  him 
in  his  lonely  childhood  and  in  the  cruel  assaults 


1 82       MY   FATHER  SETTLES  AT  ASSISI 

of  the  Hoole  Class-room,  remained  his  chief 
spiritual  nourishment  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
It  was  as  the  bread  of  his  soul,  indispensable. 
The  **  Imitation  "  was  his  meat ;  the  "  Spiritual 
Combat "  his  drink  ;  Blosius  was  the  fresh- 
gathered  fruit  of  this  ghostly  banquet ;  Harphius, 
Rusbrochius,  Suso,  Taulerus,  Hilton,  St.  Theresa, 
St.  John  of  the  Cross,  St.  Catherine  of  Genoa, 
Denis  the  Carthusian,  and  how  many  more,  were 
as  the  dainties  and  delicacies  at  the  end  of  the 
feast.  But  of  them  all  the  Bread  of  the  Psalter, 
that  staff  of  the  soul's  life,  was  the  most  essential 
and  necessary.  If  the  soul  may  not  live  by  the 
Psalms  alone,  it  cannot  live  without  them.  The 
Psalter  became  to  him  what  his  beloved  Blosius 
says  of  it,  a  tower,  an  helmet,  a  sword,  both 
medicine,  food,  and  the  seasoning  of  food,  a 
beacon  and  a  crown.  It  delivers  those  in  danger, 
the  holy  writer  goes  on  to  say  ;  it  heals  the 
wounded,  enlightens  the  blind,  stirs  up  the  idle, 
inflames  the  cold,  consoles  the  sad,  confirms  the 
waverer  ;  il  mak<'s  a  man  hate  his  sins,  despise 
the  world,  love  God  and  desire  Eternal  Life  ; 
it  strengthens  Faith,  infuses  Hope,  increases 
Charity  ;  it  commends  patience,  teaches  sobriety, 
imparteth  chastity,  purifies  the  heart,  tranquillises 


THE  VIRTUES  OF  THE   PSALTER      183 

the  conscience,  and  exhilarates  the  mind  ;  it  re- 
news the  interior  man,  and  diffuses  a  wondrous 
sweetness  throughout  his  whole  being.  The 
mind  of  man  can  devise  no  prayer  more  perfect 
or  sublime.  The  soul  whose  internal  palate  is 
still  unspoiled  may  taste  therein  untold  delights. 
In  a  word,  the  Psalter  is  a  heavenly  canticle,  and 
those  who  cultivate  it  assiduously  are  changed 
thereby  from  men  to  angels.  Having  therefore 
left  behind  the  vanities  of  the  world,  let  us, 
according  to  the  counsel  of  the  Blessed  Paul, 
teach  and  admonish  one  another  in  psalms  and 
hymns  and  spiritual  songs.  And  let  us  adorn 
our  souls  with  prayer  and  divine  praise  so  that 
we  may  be  joyful  in  this  life,  and  merit  to  attain 
eternal  bliss  hereafter.  So  writes  the  divine 
Blosius  in  his  preface  to  the  "  Marrow  of  the 
Psalter." ' 

When  I  was  a  boy  about  twelve  my  father's 
daily  life  was  something  as  follows.  He  would  rise 
at  five,  both  summer  and  winter,  and  after  his 
morning  prayer  betake  himself  to  the  six  o'clock 
mass  at  the  Basilica  of  San  Francesco.  In  thanks- 
giving  for  having  heard    mass   he  would   serve 

1  D.   Ludovici  Blosii  Opera.     Coloniae,  161 5.     Preface   to   the 
Medulla  Psalmodia,  p.  750. 


1 84      MY   FATHER  SETFLES  AT   ASSISl 

another  mass,  usually  at  the  tomb  of  St.  Francis. 
On  returning  home  he  said  prime,  tierce,  sext, 
and  none  (having  already  said  matins  and  lauds 
overnight),  and  made  half-an-hour's  meditation 
in  his  oratory.  There  is  no  such  meal  as 
breakfast  in  Italy,  but  many  people  add  bread, 
or  bread  and  butter,  to  their  coffee.  My  father 
only  took  one  small  cup  of  black  coffee.  From 
about  eight  to  twelve-thirty  he  kept  his  study. 
He  was  an  incredibly  slow  worker,  and  went 
over  the  same  ground  again  and  again  ;  but 
when  it  came  to  actual  writing  he  wrote  swiftly 
and,  as  I  think,  well.  At  half-past  twelve  we 
went  to  a  simple  but  abundant  dinner.  It  was 
abundant  to  us  but  not  to  him.  for  he  kept  his 
appetite  under  daily  mortification,  and  his  every 
meal  was  an  attempt  to  appear  to  cat  of  what 
everybody  else  did.  while  really  eating  infini- 
tesimal quantities.  It  was  f(^v  this  reason,  no 
doubt,  that  he  would  ha\c  no  dishes  handed, 
but  helped  all  himself,  so  that  with  the  least 
possible  observation  he  might  be  niggardly  to 
himself  lUit  half  a  spoonful  nf  mincstra  would 
go  into  his  i^Iatc,  and  I,  early  in.icU  observant 
by  love,  would  notice  how  often  his  helpings 
ol   meat  would  consist  chiefly  of  bone.      A  fiction 


SECRET  MORTIFICATIONS  185 

had  got  about  that  he  was  of  a  weak  stomach, 
and  that  food  in  the  evening  would  prevent 
him  sleeping  at  night.  He  was  himself  the 
cunning  author  of  this  fiction  ;  I  traced  it  to  him 
easily  enough  when  I  had  grown  up.  So  at 
the  evening  meal  he  ate  an  egg,  or  a  square 
inch  of  tunny,  or  two  or  three  anchovies,  or 
a  salted  herring  which  had  found  its  way  from 
Yarmouth  to  Assisi ;  and  to  this  slender  colla- 
tion he  took  a  little  of  the  white  wine  of 
Umbria  with  water.  How  modest  and  how  en- 
gaging is  modern  piety  and  austerity  !  A  medi- 
aeval father,  who  was  inspired  like  my  father  to 
be  rid  of  creatures  so  that  he  might  join  himself 
more  closely  to  the  Creator,  would  have  denied 
himself  openly  ;  mortification  was  so  common  a 
thing  then  that  it  was  allowed  to  pass  without 
comment  hurtful  to  modesty.  There  is  perhaps 
no  trait  of  piety  more  touching  and  beautiful 
than  the  foregoing  of  mortification  for  humility's 
sake.  The  trait  was  strong  in  Mr.  Walshe. 
In  company  he  was  ever  all  things  to  all  men  ; 
while  with  sinners  it  might  be  said  of  him  what 
Thomas  of  Celano  says  of  St.  Francis,  that  he 
was  "  quasi  unus  ex  illis." 

After    the     mid-day     meal     my    father    would 


i86      MY   FATHER  SETTLES  AT  ASSISl 

retire  for  an  hour's  siesta,  at  least  during  the 
hotter  months  ;  but  towards  the  end  of  his  life 
he  dropped  even  this  mild  and  necessary  in- 
dulgence. He  then  said  Vespers  and  Com- 
pline, and  if  the  weather  allowed  of  it,  would 
walk  out  with  us  for  a  couple  of  hours,  or  pay 
a  friendly  visit  to  the  fathers  at  St.  Damian's 
or  the  Porziuncola.  On  Sundays  and  festas, 
when  no  work  was  done,  we  had  many  a  de- 
lightful excursion  into  the  remotest  parts  of 
Umbria,  hearing  mass  upon  our  way,  or  maybe 
at  our  distant  destination,  for  we  were  always 
off  betimes  in  the  morning ;  and  many  is  the 
curious  custom,  many  the  moving  exhibition  of 
primitive  faith  I  have  witnessed  in  the  unex- 
plored regions  of  this  holy  land.  Our  evening 
meal  was  of  so  simple  a  character  as  to  be  an 
easily  movable  feast ;  but  we  seldom  partook 
of  it  later  than  half-past  six.  From  seven  to 
nine-thirty  my  father  was  once  more  in  his 
study,  working  if  there  was  much  work  on 
hand,  or  doing  such  cph(;meral  reading  as  he 
found  necessary,  or  perhaps  wholly  absorbed 
in  spiritual  reading.  At  least  one  hour  of  the 
day  he  devoted  to  reading  in  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints,    the    ascetical   writers,   <jr    Holy   Writ    in 


NIGHT   PRAYERS  187 

St,  Jerome's  moving  Latin.  At  nine-thirty 
the  household  assembled  for  prayers.  We  said 
five  mysteries  of  the  Rosary,  the  Litany  of  Our 
Lady,  some  prayers  for  the  Dead,  some  prayers 
for  Holy  Church  and  the  Holy  Father,  the 
Hymn  and  Collect  from  Compline ;  and  it 
moves  me  immeasurably  when  I  remember 
how  we  all — servants  and  all — ended  by  repeat- 
ing after  my  father :  In  nomine  Domini  Nostri 
Jesu  Christi  Crucifixi  cubitwn  eo :  ille  me  bene- 
dicat  .  .  .  regat  .  .  .  custodial  .  .  .  et  ad  vitam- 
per  ducat  cBternam.     Amen. 

About  ten  o'clock  my  father  retired  to  rest, 
but  not  to  bed.  He  had  no  fixed  time  for  going 
to  bed — sometimes  it  may  have  been  twelve, 
sometimes  one,  sometimes  even  later.  In  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life,  I  know,  he  was  content 
with  four,  and  even  three  hours'  sleep.  These 
night  hours  were  the  hours  of  his  recollected 
devotions,  in  which  he  could  indulge  to  the  full 
his  experimental  science  of  spiritual  things.  In 
the  night  watches  he  tasted  all  the  sweets  of 
Divine  contemplation,  and  something,  I  am  sure, 
of  the  bliss  of  the  prayer  of  Quiet.  God  favoured 
him  at  times  with  a  torrent  of  abundant  sweet- 
ness  in   prayer,  and   at   times   tried   him   with  a 


1 88      MY   FATHER  SETTLES  AT  ASSISI 

grievous  spiritual  dryness  and  desolation ;  but 
whether  in  a  happy  ecstasy,  divine  praises 
readily  falling  from  his  lips,  or  in  the  outer 
darkness  seemingly  abandoned  by  the  Paraclete, 
he  was  instant  in  prayer  and  spiritual  exercises. 
He  had  ceased  to  be  the  sport  of  mere  feeling, 
the  dupe  of  a  subjective  religion  ;  prayer  was  the 
more  meritorious  without  feeling ;  prayer  was 
a  duty  whatever  the  state  of  the  feelings.  In 
the  midst  of  the  sweets  of  contemplation  and 
divine  praise,  he  never  lost  his  equilibrium,  he 
never  forgot  practical  subjects  of  prayer.  And 
indeed  there  was  no  lack  of  subjects.  Had  he 
not,  as  every  holy  soul  has,  the  entire  universe 
upon  his  shoulders?  There  was  the  suffering 
Father  of  the  Faithful,  the  sore  needs  of  Christ's 
Church  upon  earth,  th(!  galloj)ing  devastations 
of  the  Revolution  and  modern  thought,  the 
tempestuous  ravages  of  sin  and  the  tumultuous 
invasions  of  luxury,  the  heedlessness  and  great 
perils  of  the  rich,  the;  indifference  of  the  poor 
to  the  great  privileges  of  poverty,  his  (^wn  two 
bf)ys  growing  uj)  in  the-  midsl  of  a  new  world 
that  was  putting  a  filse  gloss  upon  morality  and 
a  false  glamour  uj)on  vice,  the  soul  of  his  wife, 
the   soul   of   ]^i\]-(\    I'^-f-dcrirk,  and    the  souls  of  all 


AN   UNPROFITABLE  SERVANT         189 

the  faithful  departed.  Indeed,  there  was  no  lack 
of  subjects.  And,  greatest  burden  of  all  upon  his 
shoulders,  there  was  himself,  whom  he  regarded 
to  the  end  of  his  days  as  an  unprofitable  servant 
in  the  Lord's  vineyard,  chief  among  the  sinners 
who  had  been  called  into  the  narrow  way,  lowest 
among  the  servitors  in  God's  holy  house.  In 
those  lone  nio^ht  watches  in  the  little  town  of 
Assisi,  unknown  to  the  world,  a  holy  soul 
wrestled  nightly  with  the  Creator  of  the  world, 
beseeching  Him  by  that  infinite  incomprehensible 
Act  of  Love  by  which  He  has  sought  to  redeem 
the  myriad  infinite  wickednesses  of  the  children 
of  men,  to  blot  out  all  the  world's  transgressions 
and  regenerate  the  children  of  His  handiwork. 
It  would  go  ill  with  the  world  if  there  were  not 
many  such,  and  because  of  his  love  of  the  world 
I  ask  the  world's  love  for  him.  If  he  could  not 
save  the  world,  I  yet  know  of  many  an  elect 
vessel  whom,  by  prayer  and  good  counsel,  he 
has  rescued  from  shipwreck  and  everlasting 
disaster ! 

One  night,  when  I  may  have  been  about  seven 
years  of  age,  I  lay  awake — as  too  often  happened 
with  me — troubled  by  the  thought  of  ghosts, 
seeing   all    manner   of   fantastic    lights    dancing 


190      MY   FATHER  SETTLES  AT  ASSISI 

across  the  room,   and  hearing  all  manner  of  in- 
explicable creaking  noises  in  the  walls  and  rafters. 
Shivering   and  cold   all  over   with   childish   fear, 
I    would   put   my   head    under   the   clothes  for  a 
long  time  together.      I   remember  on  this  night, 
while   I   was  thus  buried  under  the  clothes,  hear- 
intr  the  crreat  boominor  clock   of  San    Francesco 
strike    six    strokes    (and    that    of    course    means 
midnight  in  its  ancient  mechanism).      I  remember 
how  terrible  the  hollow  sound  of  the  bell  seemed 
to  make   my   dark   prison-house.      I    llung    back 
the  clothes  and  willingly  returned  to  the  dancing 
moonlight  and   the   mysterious   noises.      But   the 
character    of   the    noises    had    changed.      There 
was  a  real  noise  now,  a  faint,  far-away  rhythmic 
noise,  not  in  my  room,  but  certainly  in  the  house, 
and   I   suddenly   realised   the   difference   between 
real  and  imaginary  noises.      I   had  no  fear  now, 
but  a  great  anxiety.     I   leapt  from  my  bed   and 
listened  at  the  keyhole  of  the  door.     There  was 
no  doubt  about  the  sound  ;  it  was  faint  still,  but 
rhythmic    and    measured.      I    softly    opened    the 
door  and  peered  out  into  the  long  dark  landing. 
The   sound,    clearer   now   than   ever,  came   from 
the  other  end  of  ii.      There  I  saw  a  bright  light 
under    the    door   of  my    fithcr's    oratory,    and    a 


TAKING  THE  DISCIPLINE  191 

bright  stream  of  light  shining  through  the  key- 
hole. The  noise  was  clearer  than  ever.  It  was 
not  curiosity  that  led  me,  but  a  nameless  anxiety. 
I  crept  to  the  end  of  the  marble-paved  landing, 
and  kneeling  down,  looked  through  the  keyhole. 

O  Heaven!  what  a  sight  I  saw!  My  father 
on  his  knees  before  his  little  altar,  his  night-dress 
girded  round  his  loins,  the  edge  of  a  cilicium 
just  visible  above  it,  wielding  a  cruel  scourge 
which  he  brought  down  with  full  force  upon  his 
bare  shoulders  in  the  blows  which  accompanied 
the  rhythmical  recital  of  a  psalm!  "Oh  Dad! 
dear  Dad  !  don't !  don't !  upon  me  instead  !  upon 
me !  "  This  was  surging  in  my  childish  brain, 
but  my  lips  refused  to  move.  I  think  I  should 
have  cried  aloud  in  horror,  but  that  he  was 
kneeling  sideways  and  I  could  see  his  dear  face, 
twitching  now  and  again  a  little  with  the  pain, 
but  so  mild  and  sweet  and  composed,  so  modest 
and  gentle,  and  yet  illumined  withal  with  so 
seraphic  an  ardour,  that  I  was  kept  dumb  by 
amazement  and  admiration.  I  knew  well  enough 
that  the  Saints  did  such  things,  but  I  was  not 
old  enough  to  know  that  there  were  also  moderns 
who  practised  the  like  austerities,  and  I  rose 
from    my    knees   in   a    boyish    fit  of  exaltation. 


192      MY   FATHER   SETTLES  AT  ASSISI 

praising  God  that  He  had  made  my  father  a 
Saint.  Away  now  for  ever  all  those  childish 
fears  of  the  night,  for  a  Saint  slept  under  our 
roof  and  his  presence  would  protect  me  from  all 
harm ;  yea,  though  my  room  should  be  filled 
with  blackest  devils  in  darkest  night-time,  I 
would  fear  no  evil  ;  his  prayers  and  his  stripes 
would  comfort  and  shield  me. 

Next  day  at  dinner  -  time  I  glanced  at  my 
father  with  considerable  awe.  He  was  the  same 
gentle  unassuming  father,  generously  ladling  out 
the  7}iinestra  to  all  of  us — we  had  a  priest-tutor 
and  a  French  governess  in  the  house  at  the 
time — and  trying  to  hide  his  own  scanty  portion 
behind  the  big  tureen.  IJut  from  that  day  my 
affection  for  him  redoubled  ;  for  the  first  time  I 
be^ran  to  show  him  little  attentions,  and  to  take 
a  childish  interest  in  his  work.  1  was  repaid  by 
his  wonder  and  delight,  and  still  more  by  the 
tender  affection  which  he  lavished  upon  me.  In 
the  long  wet  winter  afternoons,  we  two  alone 
by  ourselves  in  the  big  study,  sitting  before  the 
great  open  wood  fire,  he  would  take  me  on  his 
knee,  and  tell  me  again  and  again  the  wonderful 
story  ol  St.  Francis  and  his  first  followers.  And 
as  the  d.iy  drew  in,  under  cover  of  the  dusk,   he 


IN  THE  ECSTASY  OF  PRAYER  193 

would  lose  that  certain  shyness  which  he  had 
even  with  his  children — or  was  it  diffidence? — 
and  speak  to  me  long  and  lovingly  of  Him  who 
was  the  great  exemplar  of  Francis  and  all  the 
Saints.  And  when  the  light  of  the  fire  shone 
upon  his  face,  I  used  to  think  that  so  Moses 
must  have  looked  when  he  came  down  from 
communing  with  God  upon  Mount  Sinai. 

After    I    made  the    discovery   of  my    father's 
secret  mortification,   I   would  often  lie  awake  at 
night,   or    wake    up    suddenly    in   the   middle   of 
the  night,     I  no  longer  saw  dancing  lights  which 
frightened  me  or  was  terrified  by  mysterious  un- 
accountable noises,  but  I  often  heard  the  far-away 
rhythmic  noise  of  that  cruel  scourge.     I  never 
again  ventured  to  look  upon  that    sight,   but    I 
used  to  look  through  the  keyhole  before  or  after, 
and  watch  him  through  my  blinding  tears  in  the 
blissful    ecstasy    of    prayer    and    contemplation. 
'Twas    a    sight    to    melt  the   hardest   heart,    to 
move  the  dourest  unbeliever.     He  knelt  before 
a   crucifix   and  two   lighted    candles  ;    his    head 
bowed   low,    the    mouth   resting    upon    his    long 
slender  finger-tips  ;  and  all  the  while  he  smiled 
to    himself   in    great    contentment.       Then    the 
hands   would   go  apart,    the    arms    be    stretched 

N 


194      ^^^'   FATHER  SETTLES  AT  ASSISI 

out  wide  in  supplication  ;  deep  sighs  would 
escape  him  as  the  Holy  Name  fell  from  his  lips 
in  accents  of  tenderest  love ;  and  then  the  hands 
would  close  again  and  the  smiling  mouth  once 
more  rest  upon  the  finger-tips.  No  words  of 
mine  could  ever  convey  the  purity  and  innocence 
of  that  dear  figure  at  prayer. 

This  may  have  continued  a  year  or  so  when 
my  curiosity  grew  faint ;  Nature  had  her  way 
with  me  ;  and  I  began  to  sleep  the  whole  night 
through.  And  of  my  secret  watchings  he  never 
knew  anything  till  long  after,  and  he  now  knows 
all  my  thoughts  in  the  Paradise  of  the  Angels 
to  which  his  soul  has  fied. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MY  father's  venial  FAULT 

But  though  Mr.  Walshe  was  ever  a  very  saintly 
man,  I  dare  not  call  him  Saint  in  the  very  strict 
sense  in  which  the  term  is  used  technically,  not 
at  all  events  in  the  middle  epoch  of  his  life.  He 
had  one  fault  which  the  Devil's  Advocate  would 
certainly  have  made  the  most  of  and  much,  if  ever 
the  process  of  his  canonisation  were  introduced. 
It  was  certainly  a  most  interesting  fault.  I  loved 
it,  and  indeed  could  find  no  fault  in  it,  but  it  were 
idle  to  cavil  at  the  Church  for  being  over-strict 
in  the  matter  of  her  Confessors'  virtues.  That 
she  is  strict  and  exacting  it  is  easy  to  understand 
when  one  reflects  what  myriads  of  holy  souls  have 
walked  across  the  stage  of  life,  and  how  compara- 
tively few  of  them  have  been  raised  to  the  full 
honours  of  the  altar,  and  are  commended  by  her 
to  the  perpetual  veneration  and  invocation  of  the 
faithful.  But  I  take  comfort  in,  and  never  cease 
to  admire,  that  saving  clause  daily  read  by  the 

Church  at  Prime  at  the  end  of  her  Martyrology  : 

195 


196  MY   FATHER'S  VENIAL   FAULT 

Et  alibi  aliorum  plurinio'non  safictorum  martyr unt 
et  confessoriwi,  atqiie  sanctarum  virgimim.  [Deo 
graticisl  answers  the  choir,  and  it  has  good  reason 
to  be  thankful  to  God.)  And  I  am  certiiin  that 
my  father  will  be  commemorated  with  the  unenu- 
merated  confessors  every  2nd  July,  the  day  of  his 
death. 

My  father's  failing — if  so  indeed  I  must  call  it 
— had  disappeared  altogether  a  good  fifteen  years 
before  his  death.  It  was  at  its  hottest  for  about 
ten  years  before  that  time.  Never  once  did  it 
cause  his  religious  practices  to  slacken,  or  his 
large-hearted  charity  to  grow  cold  ;  nor  did  it  ever 
so  lightly  warp  his  sound  judgment  or  obscure  his 
clear  vision  of  celestial  things,  and  therefore  why 
should  I  bemoan  it.'*  My  father's  fault  was  no 
worse  than  a  hobby,  and  its  worst  consequences 
were  the  loss  of  some  time  (taken  from  study,  not 
from  spiritual  exercises),  and  some  money  (to  the 
detriment  of  his  library,  and  not  of  the  needy 
poor).  I  am  free  to  admit  that  the  venial  faults 
of  the  saints  were  passing  and  not  lasting,  as  is 
the  way  with  venial  hobbies,  which  are  always 
endowed  with  a  terrible  vitality.  There  are  faults 
which  are  but  a  faint  shadow  momentarily  cast 
across  the  mind,  but  a  hobby  takes  deep  root  in 


A  PROBLEM  OF  ANCESTRY  197 

the  sensitive  parts  and  courses  in  a  vicious  circle 
through  the  whole  arterial  system.  I  am  not  in 
the  least  ashamed  of  my  father's  failing ;  indeed, 
I  rejoice  that  the  severity  of  his  life  should  have 
been  tempered  by  this  little  worldly  solace  and 
excitement.  (Ah !  what  excitement  it  was,  to  be 
sure !)  But  if  I  were  ever  so  much  ashamed  of 
it,  this  is  a  veracious  history,  and  here  it  should 
find  a  sufficient  record. 

This,  then,  was  my  father's  hobby.  You  will 
have  seen,  of  course,  how  fine,  how  keen,  how 
nice,  how  eager  an  herald  he  was.  One  day  he 
awoke  very  suddenly  to  the  fact  that  he  had  no 
arms,  nor  yet,  for  aught  he  knew,  the  right  to 
bear  arms.  Who  was  he  ?  The  son  of  a  well- 
to-do  Manchester  merchant :  he  knew  no  more 
than  that,  knew  not  the  name  of  his  grandfather 
or  grandmother,  not  even  the  name  of  the  place 
where  his  father  was  born,  nor  whether  he  had 
uncles  or  aunts,  cousins  or  cousins-german.  He 
desired  to  know  who  he  was :  that  was  his  hobby. 
He  desired  to  know,  because  he  thought  the 
result  would  show  him  that  he  was  entitled  to 
bear  arms.  The  world  has  grown  so  snobbish 
with  the  march  of  progress  that  it  may  scent 
snobbishness  in  this.      Fie  upon  the  world,  then. 


198  MY   FATHER'S  VENIAL  FAULT 

if  it  can  ever  think  that  odious  thing  in  connection 
with  this  delicate,  this  humble,  this  simple  soul ! 
My  father  ever  loved  Christ's  despised  poor  above 
all  kings  and  emperors  and  nobles,  and  he  valued 
more  highly  the  privilege  of  giving  an  alms  to  one 
of  them  than  a  commenda  in  the  Papal  Order  of 
Christ  itself. 

Herald  as  he  was  to  the  very  marrow,  I  sup- 
pose that  he  never  suffered  such  keen  anguish  in 
his  life  as  his  inability  to  use  arms.  There  were 
no  arms  over  the  palace  (which  he  subsequently 
bought)  except  those  of  the  Fortiguerra  family  ; 
no  arms  on  the  fine  bindings  of  his  rare  books 
and  codexes,  save  where  they  had  formerly  been 
the  property  of  armigerous  gentlemen  ;  no  arms 
over  the  sanctuary  of  St.  Agnes  near  Todi 
(which  had  been  bought  by  him  at  the  Govern- 
ment auction  and  saved  for  ever  from  modern 
vandalism)  ;  no  crest  upon  our  simple  solid  plate, 
but  only  my  grandfather's  tasteless  monogram  ; 
and,  worst  blow  of  all  perhaps,  no  arms  by 
which  he  might  dignify  his  book-j^late.  A 
scholarly  gentleman  without  arms  is  a  helpless 
derelict,  and  my  father  was  both  scholar  and 
gentleman.  As  a  Brother  of  the  Third  Order 
of    St.     Francis     he     might     have     claimed     (I 


A   BOOK-PLATE  199 

think)  to  impale  the  arms  of  the  Order  with 
his  own  arms.  Yielding  to  a  momentary- 
temptation,  he  designed  a  book-plate  in  which 
the  arms  of  the  Order  were  placed  upon  a  large 
Cross  Tau,  in  memory  of  St.  Francis'  devotion 
to  this  meanest  form  of  the  Cross,  and  circum- 
scribed by  the  legend,  "  Ex  Bibliotheca  Fratris 
Joannis  Gulielmi  Walshe  de  Assisio."  But  he 
saw  the  hollowness  and  vanity  of  this  endeavour 
to  cheat  himself,  and  the  five  thousand  impres- 
sions which  came  home  from  the  printer  were  all 
destroyed.  After  that  the  book-plate  took  the 
form  of  a  simple  inscription  :  'tis  a  tribute  to  his 
humility,  in  that  it  is  a  frank  confession  to  the 
non-armigerous  condition   of  the    owner  of   the 

library.     The  inscription  runs  thus : — 

EX  LIBRIS 
JOANNIS  GULIELMI  WALSHE 

Assisii,  die  .  .  .  mense  .  .  .  An.  Sal  .  .  . 


Sit  nomen  Domini  benedictum. 


Who  was  he  ?  The  thought  pressed  upon  my 
father  and  troubled  him.  To  look  at  him  you 
would  have  said  :  a  high-born  gentleman,  perfect 
in   speech,   perfect  in    manner,   radiating   refine- 


200  MY  FATHER'S  VENIAL  FAULT 

ment,  and  ennobled  by  the  added  lustre  of  sanc- 
tity.    And   yet   his  father   was  engaged    in   the 
Manchester  trade,  occupied  above  all  things  about 
drills    and    twills,    grey    shirtings    and    bleached 
domestics.      And    this    same    father    of  his :    he 
had   been   known   for   his   fine   bearing   and   dis- 
tinguished  manners,    so    much    so    that    on   the 
Manchester  Exchange   they  had   come   to   nick- 
name him  "  the  Duke."     Whence  had  he  sprung, 
then  ?     "  Gentleman,"  and  that  most  emphatically 
in  every  extension   of  the  every-day  use  of  the 
term,  old  John  Walshe  most  certainly  was.      But 
what  is  a  gentleman  ?     Every  gentleman  thinks 
he  can  detect  another,  even  if  he  cannot  define 
that  most  elusive  of  terms.      But  the  science  of 
heraldry  is  inexorable,  and  knows  no  doubt :  only 
he  is  a  gentleman  who  has  the  right  to  bear  arms, 
and   such   a  one   is   not  only   gentle,   but  noble. 
The  right  implies  pedigree,  unless  the  grant  be 
personal  ;    there    was   no   question    of  a   personal 
grant    in   my   grandf ithcr's   case,   and   there   was 
no  pedigree   forthcoming. 

Yet  my  father  had  become  blindly  convinced 
that  John  Walshe  must  have  come  of  an  armi- 
gerous  stock.  How  otherwise  could  he  have 
been  allowed  to  wed  Maria  Bodley,  whose  family 


EVIDENCE  OF  NOBLE  ORIGIN         201 

coat  dated  back  far  beyond  the  first  Heralds' 
Visitation  ?  Why  did  he  not  use  his  arms  ? 
Why  did  he  conceal  his  origin  ?  Here  was  a 
mystery  which  aroused  all  my  dear  father's 
keenest  imagination.  The  mystery  was  great 
and  dazzling ;  the  solution  could  only  be  equally 
great  and  dazzling :  John  Walshe  was  not  only 
gentle,  he  was  titled  ;  not  only  was  he  entitled 
to  arms,  but  to  supporters ;  not  only  to  a  crest 
which  had  shone  resplendent  at  Agincourt,  but 
to  an  earl's  coronet  which  had  been  conferred 
by  Edward   IV. 

You  may  remember  that  there  were  two  titled 
families  of  Walshe — the  Barons  Walshe  of  Eccles- 
dale,  a  new  creation,  so  we  could  dismiss  that, 
and  the  Earls  of  Thornhaugh  in  Lancashire, 
which  title  had  become  dormant  in  1799;  and 
upon  that  we  eagerly  fixed  as  yielding  most 
certainly  the  solution  of  John  Walshe's  origin. 

It  is  true  that  in  matters  hobbyhorsical,  Dame 
Logic  deserts  the  most  logical  of  her  offspring, 
but  let  me  marshal  our  evidence,  and  it  will  at 
once  be  seen  how  conclusive  it  was. 

I.  Manchester  was  in  Lancashire  and  so  was 
Thornhaugh  ;  therefore  my  grandfather  was  a 
Lancashire  Walshe.     That  was  already  much. 


202  MY   FATHER'S  VENIAL  FAULT 

2.  Walshe  with  an  "  e  "  did  not  exist  in  Lanca- 
shire outside  the  Thornhaugh  family  ;  therefore 
my  grandfather  was  one  of  the  Thornhaugh 
family.  John  (that  most  uncommon  of  names) 
was  a  stock  Thornhaugh  name,  and  my  grand- 
father's name  was  John. 

3.  My  grandfather  once  got  into  a  towering 
passion  when  questioned  about  his  origin  ;  there- 
fore his  origin  must  be  a  subject  of  great 
moment. 

4.  My  grandfather  was  nicknamed  "  the  Duke;" 
therefore,  a  fortiori,  he  must  have  claims  to  a 
mere  earldom. 

5.  An  old  servant  who  had  been  in  his  employ 
before  the  days  of  his  marriage  had  been  heard 
to  say  that  he  was  a  "  noble  lord,"  and  she  could 
not  have  invented  such  a  statement. 

6.  My  gr.uidmother,  when  interrogated  on  the 
subject,  had  looked  mysterious  and  tried  to  laugh 
it  off  in  her  gossamer  way,  but  had  remained  ob- 
stinately uncommunicative  ;  therefore  there  must 
be  a  great  mystery  behind  it  all  if  we  have  but 
patience  to  unravel  it. 

But,  seventhly  and  lastly,  wc  had  one  littl(!  bit  of 
evidence  that  certainly  was  rather  striking.  The 
fourth  son  of  the  tenth  Earl  of  Thornhaugh,  who 


A  FRUITLESS  SEARCH  203 

died  in  1702,  was  called  David.  This  David  had 
an  only  son  called  David,  who  in  turn  had  a  son 
called  David.  Of  this  last  David  we  know  that 
at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  he  made 
a  runaway  match  with  a  yeoman's  daughter,  and 
went  to  Lisbon,  where  all  trace  of  him  vanishes 
into  thin  air.  We  have  searched  the  old  Eng- 
lish cemetery  there,  grave  by  grave,  lest  the  entry 
of  his  burial  should  have  been  omitted  from  the 
registers,  but  in  vain.  There  is  no  trace  of  him 
in  the  archives  of  the  Legation  or  Consulate ;  if 
he  had  any  children,  they  were  not  baptized  by 
the  English  chaplain.  When  my  father  went  to 
England  after  John  Walshe's  death,  he  brought 
back  a  few  trinkets  to  which  he  attached  no 
value,  for  he  had  not  yet  begun  to  ask  who  he 
was  and  who  was  his  grandfather.  But  one  of 
these  trinkets  is  our  prime  piece  of  evidence.  It 
is  a  small  plain  round  brooch  filled  with  plaited 
fair  hair.  There  is  something  common  about  the 
trinket.  It  is  just  such  a  brooch  as  a  farmer  might 
have  worn  in  his  Sunday  scarf;  but  to  us  it  was 
of  priceless  value,  for  on  the  back  of  it  is  inscribed 
the  mystic  legend,  "  David  Walsh."  What  if 
there  be  no  "  e  "  to  the  name  ;  that  is  the  careless 
engraver's  mistake,  a  perfecdy  natural  mistake, 


204  MY   FATHER'S  VENIAL  FAULT 

too,  where  so  common  a  name  as  Walsh  is  con- 
cerned. The  brooch  contains  the  hair  of  my 
great-grandfather,  David  Walshe,  who,  if  living 
in  1799,  was  lawfully  the  fourteenth  Earl  of 
Thornhaugh  ;  who,  if  dead,  had  left  an  infant, 
John,  my  grandfather,  to  succeed  to  his  rights. 
It  was  all  as  plain  as  plain  could  be  ;  my  grand- 
father was  either  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  Earl  of 
Thornhaugh,  seventeenth  or  eighteenth  Viscount 
Eldhurst,  and  twentieth  or  twenty-first  Baron 
Walshe  of  Thornhaugh. 

I  remember  one  day,  soon  after  he  had  initiated 
me  into  these  mysteries,  I  held  the  precious 
trinket  in  my  hands,  and  was  turning  the  ugly 
little  thing  over  and  over,  when  I  suddenly  asked, 
"  Have  you  ever  had  it  opened.  Dad  ?  "  Never 
in  his  devout  and  recollected  existence  have  I 
seen  him  so  shaken  by  human  feeling.  "No!" 
he  cried  in  great  excitement,  "  I  have  never  even 
thought  of  it."  He  paused  and  glanced  at  me 
with  obvious  admiration  and  gratitude.  "We 
will  go  over  to  Perugia  to-morrow,"  he  continued, 
"and  have  it  taken  to  pieces  by  the  best  jeweller 
in  the  j)lace."  The  jeweller's  examination  re- 
vealed a  small  folded  piece  of  paper,  with  the 
date  "  16  Oct.    1798"  written   in   a  clumsy  hand, 


A  PEDIGREE  OF  THE  WALSHES      205 

and  **  David's  hair "  scrawled  below  it.  My 
father's  excitement  knew  no  bounds.  "  This  is 
most  important!"  he  cried,  "most  important. 
David  did  not  survive  the  last  Earl.  Therefore 
your  grandfather  was  fourteenth  Earl,  seven- 
teenth Viscount,  and  twentieth  Baron." 

A  great  deal  of  time  was  given  to  the  study 
of  this  subject,  and  some  money  was  spent  in 
travelling  and  pedigree-hunting.  We  never 
advanced  a  step  further  in  the  search,  but  my 
father  being  clearly  satisfied  that  he  was  the 
head  of  the  noble  house  of  Walshe,  began  to 
amass  a  quantity  of  material  relating  to  their 
family  which  would  have  astonished  its  dead 
and  gone  members.  I  have  before  me  as  I 
write  a  noble  pedigree  of  the  Walshes  from  1 21 1, 
in  which  John  Walshe,  the  Manchester  merchant, 
figures  as  the  fourteenth  Earl  and  himself  as  the 
fifteenth  Earl.  My  brother  and  I  appear  simply 
under  our  Christian  names  bracketed  as  twins. 
He  has  not  assigned  to  either  of  us  the  courtesy 
title  of  Viscount  Eldhurst.  And  that,  I  suspect, 
because,  with  his  mediaeval  mind  and  mediaeval 
sympathies,  he  has  not  dared  to  say  which  of 
us  was  the  elder,  although  the  law  would  have 
allowed  him  to  do  so.     To  be  logical,  the  elder 


2o6  MY  FATHER'S  VENIAL  FAULT 

of  twins  is  not  he  who  was  first  born,  but  he 
who  was  first  conceived,  and  who  shall  fathom 
that  unfathomable  mystery?  Birth  is  of  no 
importance  as  compared  with  conception ;  'tis 
but  the  cause  of  a  cause,  and  our  ancestors,  from 
a  sense  of  logic  and  reverence,  dated  the  Chris- 
tian era  from  Our  Lord's  Conception  on  the 
25th  March,  and  not  from  His  birth  on  the  25th 
December.  In  this  reverent  notation  of  time, 
Protestant  England  survived  all  Catholic  Europe 
for  a  lono;-  while. 

I  protest  that  my  father  was  absolutely  in- 
different to  titles  and  wealth  ;  that  if  he  had 
had  titles  or  greater  wealth,  they  would  only 
have  been  an  inducement  to  him  to  be  still 
more  humble  and  simple.  He  had  merely  got 
it  into  his  head  that  he  must  be  armigerous, 
and  that  the  Thornhaugh  peerage  contained  the 
only  likely  clue  to  the  mystery.  That  a  herald  like 
himself  should  have  no  arms,  that  so  consummate 
a  genealogist  should  be  without  pedigree,  seemed 
absurd  and  unnatural.  Had  his  researches  led 
him  to  attach  himself  to  the  poorest  of  county 
families,  he  would  have  been  equally  content, 
for  it  would  have  meant  arms.  Nay,  I  go 
further,  and   protest  that   had    Heaven   revealed 


THE   DEATH  OF  A  FOIBLE  207 

to  him  that  he  came  of  but  the  humblest  stock, 
he  would  have  bowed  his  head  without  a  mur- 
mur and  cheerfully  renounced  the  dream  of 
arms. 

I  freely  admit  that  such  a  foible  as  his  may 
not  be  found  amongst  the  acknowledged  Saints ; 
a  great  Saint  would  have  seen  the  sin  in  it  at 
once  and  have  strangled  the  enchanting  monster 
at  its  birth.  But  was  my  father  ever  conscious 
of  the  sin  in  it?  In  the  first  few  years  I  am 
sure  he  was  not  (and  that  the  Devil's  Advocate 
will  say  was  a  defect) ;  as  time  went  on,  I  think 
he  awoke  to  the  vanity  of  his  desires  ;  probably 
he  fought  long  and  earnestly  to  justify  them ; 
but  the  vanity  was  doomed  to  death,  and  it 
died  a  sudden  death  in  1885.  From  that  day 
all  talk  of  the  Thornhaugh  peerage  and  the 
Walshe  coat-of-arms  ceased,  without  a  word 
of  repining  on  his  part,  and  for  the  last  fifteen 
years  of  his  life  even  the  Devil's  Advocate  could 
not  have  found  the  slightest  flaw  to  cheat  him  of 
his  crown  of  Saint. 

In  1896,  when  visiting  Liverpool  (I  will  con- 
fess that  I  still  believed  in  the  romance  and 
continued  to  hunt  on  my  own  account),  a  sin- 
gular chance    brought    the    discovery  that  John 


2o8  MY  FATHER'S  VENIAL  FAULT 

Walshe   had   begun   life  as  an    office-boy  in    an 
extremely  well-known  Liverpool  house.     Follow- 
ing   up    the    clue,   I   found   that    he    was    almost 
beyond  a  doubt  the  son  of  a  South  Cumberland 
farmer    called    David    Walsh.        This    then    ex- 
plained  the   mystery  of  the  brooch  ;    'twas   pro- 
bably the   only   relic    he    had    preserved    of  his 
original  surroundings.      But  how  came  my  grand- 
father by  the  "e"  at  the  end  of  his  name,  and 
more  extraordinary  still,  how  came  he  by  his  con- 
spicuously gentlemanly  bearing  and  speech  ?    The 
**  e "  mieht  have  been  tacked  on  to  obscure   his 
origin,  and  in  the  matter  of  bearing  and  speech, 
nature,  as  we  know,  occasionally  perpetrates  that 
rare  fluke — the  gentleman  who  is  called  after  her. 
I  told  my  father  all.     He  bowed  his  head  without 
a    murmur.      If  he  sorrowed    at    all,    it    was  for 
time  wasted  in  hunting  after  this  world's  vanities, 
and  for  having  incited  me  to  join  in  the  chase. 
Half  believing  it  myself,  and  thinking  to  hearten 
him,    I    started   the   theory   that    David   Walshe, 
heir-presumptive  to  the  Earldom  of  Thornhaugh, 
may  have  confided  his  son   to  David   "  Walsh," 
the    Cumberland   farmer,  for   mysterions  reasons 
of   state,    as   IVince   Ciiarlcs    lulward    is   said    to 
have    confided    his   son    on    the    Tuscan    shore 


VANITAS    VANITATUM  209 

to  Admiral  Allen.  My  father  smiled  and  shook 
his  head  :  "  Vanitas  vanitatwrn  et  omnia  vanitas," 
he  said  gently.  That  was  the  only  time  in  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life  that  we  ever  alluded  to 
our  right  to  bear  arms. 

And  as  I  write  thus  confidently,  and  when  I 
remember  the  exquisite  charm  of  my  father's 
manner,  the  subtle  refinement  of  his  whole 
being,  I  confess  and  do  not  deny  it,  that  I  am 
secretly  inclined,  in  the  face  of  all  the  irrefragable 
evidence,  to  believe  in  the  theory  of  his  noble 
origin,  and  to  write  him  down  fifteenth  Earl  of 
Thornhaugh,  eighteenth  Viscount  Eldhurst,  and 
twenty-first  Baron  Walshe  of  Thornhaugh. 


O 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MY     father's     sorrows 

My  father  had  two  great  sorrows  in  his  life,  both 
of  brief  duration,  and  these  two  sorrows  were 
his  two  sons.  I\Iy  brother  Frank,  of  whom 
there  has  so  far  been  no  need  to  speak  in  this 
history,  was  of  an  exceedingly  vivacious  dis- 
position. He  loved  my  father  dearly,  but  the 
quiet  routine  of  our  home  life  was  irksome  to 
him.  He  could  settle  upon  no  profession,  and 
after  trying  six  months  in  an  engineer's  shop  at 
Blackwall,  and  six  months  in  a  tea-broker's  in 
Mincing  Lane,  he  suddenly  returned  home  in  a 
highly  restless  and  excitable  condition,  announc- 
ing that  he  intended  to  go  mining  in  South 
Africa.  It  was  one  of  my  father's  first  principles 
that  young  people  should  choose  their  profes- 
sions and  their  wives,  and  he  gave  his  consent, 
however  sorrowfully. 

But  Frank  lingered  on  at  home.  Month  after 
month  went  by,  and  he  continued  to  make 
excuses   delaying   his  departure.      He   developed 


MY    BROTHER    FRANK  211 

a  keen  thirst  for  pleasure,  and  there  is  but  little 
worldly   pleasure    to    be    had   at    Assisi,    so    he 
would  be  frequently  over  at  Perugia  to  see  the 
play   and   the   opera.     He  was   an   exceedingly 
witty  fellow  and    happy  in    his  ready  repartees. 
Naturally  hilarious,  the  restraints  of  Assisi  made 
him,  by  contrast,  seem  almost  boisterous.     The 
common  people  adored  him,  for  he  was  prodigal 
of  his  bounty  and  genial  as  the  sun  at  morning. 
The  urchins  in  particular  were  ever  on  the  look- 
out for  the   "  Signorino   Francesco."      No    man 
yet  had  ever  seen  him  out  of  temper  ;  he  had 
a  ready  word  and  a  ready  jest  for  all,  and  an 
easy   grand    manner    that    fascinated    the    poor. 
There   are    no    feastings    in    modern   Assisi,   or, 
like    his    great    namesake,    he    would    assuredly 
have  been  acclaimed  Kinof  of  the  Revels.     All 
this  while,  though  he  may  have  found  religious 
practices   irksome,   he   fulfilled  his   actual  duties 
as  a  Catholic,  and  I  do  not  think  his  faith  was 
ever  troubled  by  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.     And 
although    "scapegrace"    was    somehow    written 
across  his  handsome  face — 'perhaps  by  contrast 
with   the  religious  tranquillity  of  the  place  and 
the  sobriety  of  our  home  existence — I    do   not 
think,    nay,    I    know,    that,    in   spite    of    many 


2  12  MY    FATHER'S    SORROWS 

peccadilloes,  he  never  fell  into  morUil  sin.  He 
was  simply  a  youth  of  the  highest  spirits  who 
had  not  yet  found  his  vocation  in  life  :  that  was 
all  that  was  the  matter  with  him.  But  it  was 
a  time  of  great  sorrow  and  anxiety  to  my  poor 
father. 

He  was  to  find  his  real  vocation  at  length, 
and  after  a  very  tragic  fashion.  One  evening 
he  came  home,  having  been  out  since  early 
morning,  as  had  too  often  been  the  case  of  late. 
His  face  was  Hushed,  his  eyes  danced  brightly, 
his  whole  demeanour  betrayed  a  state  of  high 
excitement  and  feverish  exaltation.  Presently 
he  announced  with  unnecessary  defiance  that  he 
was  going  to  be  married.  Alas  !  he  had  formed 
a  hot-headed  passionate  attachment  for  a  girl  of 

the  people  in  the  neighbouring  village  of  C , 

and  being  in  reality  of  a  most  innocent  and 
chivalrous  disposition,  he  never  had  any  other 
thought  than  to  take  the  girl  to  wife.  I  saw 
her  once  :  roguish,  black-eyed,  dimpling,  with 
a  great  mass  of  black  crimpy  hair,  and  dressed 
with  all  the  coquettish  simplicity  of  a  peasant 
girl  who  knows  herself  to  be  a  beauty.  She 
had  made  havoc  in  many  a  rustic  heart,  and  it 
was  easy   for    me    to    understand    how   she    had 


A    DRAMA    OF    JEALOUSY  213 

fascinated  my  brother  Frank.  My  father 
became  very  sorrowful  and  his  apprehensions 
increased.  It  was  another  of  his  innocent  first 
principles  that  young  people  should  follow  their 
hearts  where  love  and  marriage  were  concerned. 
This  principle  he  now  found  put  to  a  severe 
strain.  He  gently  counselled  waiting,  and  my 
brother  as  fiercely  scouted  all  thought  of  waiting, 
and  resolutely  claimed  a  portion  which  would 
enable  him  to  marry.  So  matters  continued 
for  a  month,  and  a  very  gloomy,  anxious,  un- 
happy month  it  was.  This  was  in  the  year 
1885. 

One  wild  March  night,  in  the  middle  of  a 
Lent  which  he  had  been  observing  but  indiffer- 
ently, my  brother  was  brought  home  on  a  litter, 
unconscious,     grievously     wounded,      and     near 

death's  door.     He  had   been   over  to  C in 

the  afternoon,  and  had  found  the  whole  village 
in  a  turmoil.  The  girl  whom  my  brother  loved 
had  been  stabbed  to  death  by  a  former  lover, 
whom  she  had  jilted  when  this  grand  young 
signorino  came  in  her  way.  The  murderer  had 
made  off,  and  the  carabineers  had  been  sent  for. 
My  poor  brother,  after  raving  like  a  madman, 
fell    into   a    kind    of  lethargy,   and   it  was  after 


214  ^^Y    FATHER'S    SORROWS 

dark  when  he  roused  himself  to  walk  home. 
Not  far  from  the  village  the  murderer  fell  upon 
him  and  struck  him  dead,  as  he  thought,  then 
walked  back  quietly  to  the  village  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  carabineers.  How  often  it 
happens  in  Italy  in  these  terrible  crimes  of 
jealousy  that  the  executioner  of  justice,  as  he 
thinks  himself,  has  not  the  slightest  desire  to 
shirk  the  consequences  of  his  act.  As  often  as 
not,  he  quietly  and  voluntarily  surrenders  himself 
to  justice. 

My  brother  lingered  between  life  and  death 
for  a  month.  His  was  the  vivacious  consti- 
tution which  naturally  clings  to  life  ;  he  insisted 
upon  living,  and  he  lived.  But  it  was  months 
before  he  could  be  considered  convalescent  or 
was  allowed  to  move.  We  had  two  Sisters  of 
St.  Vincent  in  the  house  all  the  time.  How 
changed  he  was,  to  be  sure,  poor  fellow,  so 
pale  and  thin,  so  quiet  and  composed,  so  plucky 
and  uncomplaining.  He  did  not  talk  much, 
he  did  not  read  or  care  to  be  read  to, — he 
simjjly  lay  there  and  dreamt,  his  fine  eyes 
looking  far  ahead,  for  his  dream  was  of  the 
future. 

Towards  the    middle   of  September   he  might 


A    RETREAT  215 

be  called  well  again,  and  towards  the  end  of 
September  he  astonished  us  considerably  by- 
announcing  his  intention  of  making  a  short 
retreat.  He  had  never  made  a  retreat  in  his 
life  before,  save  at  school.  The  quiet  hermitage 
of  Greccio,  so  dear  to  St.  Francis,  so  redolent 
of  the  memories  of  him  and  his  first  com- 
panions, was  the  place  he  chose  for  his  retreat. 
I  accompanied  him  thither,  and  we  had  some 
quiet  happy  talk  together  before  I  left  him  to 
the  peace  of  his  narrow  cell. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  3rd  October  he 
returned  home  unannounced.  We  had  almost 
expected  him,  for  the  morrow  was  the  greatest 
day  in  the  calendar  of  Assisi,  the  Feast  of 
our  holy  father  St.  Francis.  On  the  evening 
of  that  day  we  all  three  went  down  to  the 
Porziuncola  to  assist  at  the  beautiful  and  touch- 
ing service  of  the  "  Transitus."  The  Saint  died 
about  one  hour  after  sunset  on  Saturday  the 
3rd    October     1226,^    and    every    4th     October 

^  The  mediaeval  day  did  not  begin  with  midnight,  but  with 
sunset.  Now  sunset  on  the  3rd  October  occurs  at  about  6.15, 
and  St.  Francis  dying  about  an  hour  after  this,  would  be  con- 
sidered to  have  died  on  the  4th,  not  on  the  3rd  October.  It  was 
really  our  Saturday,  but  it  was  their  Sunday.  Brother  Elias, 
the  Vicar-General,  in  his  letter  to  the  Minister  Provincial  of 
France  announcing  the   event,  clearly   fixes  the  time  of  death. 


2i6  MY    FATHER'S    SORROWS 

his  death  is  commemorated  by  the  Frati  of 
the  Porziuncola,  gathered  round  the  very  spot 
where  Francis,  a  poor  man  and  humble,  entered 
into  Paradise,  clothed  with  riches  and  greeted 
by  celestial  songs, ^  After  our  evening  prayers, 
my  brother,  who  I  had  noticed  was  labouring 
under  a  strong  feeling  of  pent-up  emotion,  went 
over  to  Mr.  Walshe  very  suddenly,  and  before 
I  rightly  understood  what  had  happened,  he 
was  on  his  knees,  shedding  a  great  flood  of 
comfortable  tears,  pouring  forth  broken  words  of 
self-accusation  and  disjointed  petitions  for  for- 
giveness. My  father  looked  over  towards  me 
with  a  look  that  I  had  never  seen  in  his  face 
before ;  it  said  as  plain  as  look  could  say : 
"  Nay,  'tis  I   who  accuse  myself  of  never  having 

"Quarto  Nonas  Octobris,  die  Dominica,  prima  horn  noctis" 
Now  the  first  hour  of  the  night  is  the  first  after  sunset  ("un 
era  della  notte,"  they  still  call  it  in  Italy),  therefore  St.  Francis 
died  on  our  Saturday  the  3rd,  on  their  Sunday  the  4th  October. 
See,  if  you  would  see  something  very  interesting,  the  above-cited 
letter  in  A.SS.,  tom.  ii.,  Octobris,  649-652.  My  apologies  are 
due  to  scholars  for  explaining  this  very  elementary  matter  of 
chronology,  but  I  hope  that  my  friend's  life  of  his  sainted 
father  is  going  to  reach  the  general  reader,  and  it  is  not  every 
general  reader  who  would  know  that  a  man  might  have  died 
on  the  3rd  October  although  his  contemporaries  averred  that 
he  had  died  on  the  4th.— M.  C. 

*  "  "f .  P'ranciscus  pauper  et   humilis,  coclum  dives  ingreditur. 

\\}.   Hymnis  ccelestibus  honoratur." 
—  Versicle  and  liespon<!ory  of  the  sennce  of  the  "  J'tansitus." 


A    JESUIT    NOVICE  217 

understood  this  son  of  mine  ;  'tis  I  who,  blindly 
wrapped  in  selfish  pursuits,  have  driven  him 
into  temptation ;  'tis  I  who  now  most  humbly 
ask  his  forgiveness."  I  went  out  of  the  room 
hastily,  and  left  these  two  to  a  devout  over- 
flowing of  the  affections  and  a  sacred  inter- 
change  of  confidences. 

My  brother  stayed  with  us  till  the  New 
Year  of  1886.  Then  he  started  for  the  Jesuit 
Novitiate  of  .  He  had  learnt  his  voca- 
tion at  last.  I  may  not,  even  by  an  initial 
letter,  hint  where  this  Novitiate  was,  because 
curious  signs  and  wonders  began  to  gather 
about  his  life,  and  now  that  he  is  dead  there 
is  a  confused  talk  of  introducing  his  cause  for 
beatification.  His  life  has  been  written  by  his 
Novice  Master  and  Confessor :  it  is  still  in 
MS.,  and  is  likely  to  remain  so  until  time 
mellows  a  little  his  extraordinary  reputation  for 
sanctity.  There  are  two  things  of  which  the 
Church  is  always  profoundly  suspicious  :  a  new 
Saint,  and  a  new  wonder-working  Sanctuary. 
The  Holy  Office,  with  that  chilly  prudence 
which  characterises  it,  has  shown  itself  more 
than  usually  cold  to  the  spontaneous  local  cult 
which  immediately  sprang  up  round   the  young 


2i8  MY    FATHER'S    SORROWS 

Jesuit's  memory.  There  were  cases  in  which 
people  had  got  hold  of  his  photoj^raph,  and 
had  licfhted  candles  before  it  and  asked  his 
intercession.  A  local  artist,  takinsf  the  features 
from  the  photograph,  had  represented  him  in 
cassock  and  cotta,  with  lily  and  crucifi.x,  some- 
thing after  the  manner  of  St.  Aloysius  or  St. 
Stanislas  Kostka ;  a  local  lithographer  had  re- 
produced the  picture  in  the  form  of  a  santino. 
The  cult  took  striking  local  proportions,  and 
the  picture  was  venerated  in  private  oratories, 
and  above  all  in  obscure  attics.  But  the  Jesuit 
Fathers  loyally  seconded  the  Holy  Office, 
and  these  extravagances  have  died  out.  Every 
now  and  again  there  is  a  recrudescence  of  the 
devotion  when  the  rumour  gets  about  that 
another  miracle  has  been  effected  at  the  irnive 
of  Brother  Francis  Walshe.  Cures  certainly 
have  been  effected  at  my  brother's  grave  ;  they 
may  not  be  miraculous  ;  but  what  then  }  Surely 
if  the  ailment  of  even  one  incurable  hysterical 
village  girl  have  been  cured  by  devotion  to  a 
holy  soul,  is  it  not  reason  to  exalt  all  places 
of  pilgrimage,  and  to  bless  God  in  His  angels 
and  in  His  saints?  Brother  Trancis  Walshe 
died    on    the    i5lh    June    1888,    two    years    and 


MY    FATHER'S    SECOND    SORROW      219 

a  half  after  he  entered  upon  the  Religious  life. 
His  grievous  wound  continued  to  give  him 
serious  trouble,  and  he  never  really  overcame 
its   dire    consequences. 

My  father's  first  great  sorrow  was  therefore 
turned  into  a  great  unlooked-for  joy  ;  one  of  his 
sons  had  become  a  Religious,  and  was  even  held 
to  be  a  Saint  by  Christ's  poor,  whom  he  so 
greatly  venerated.  Would  that  I  could  be  equally 
sure  that  his  second  great  sorrow  had  turned 
into  joy  as  great  and  abiding !  When  my  brother 
Frank  announced  his  intention  of  becoming  a 
Jesuit,  I  suppose  it  was  the  greatest  surprise  that 
Mr,  Walshe  ever  had  in  his  life.  Had  he  come 
of  a  Catholic  stock,  or  mixed  more  with  common- 
place Catholics,  he  would  have  known  that  it  is 
always  the  merry  sons  and  daughters  who  become 
priests  and  nuns ;  only  a  cheerful  disposition  can 
stand  the  strain  of  a  self-denying  life.  But  he 
was  by  temperament  inclined  to  think  that  the 
graver  the  disposition,  the  greater  the  likelihood 
of  a  religious  vocation  ;  and  because  I  was  sedate 
and  addicted  to  books,  he  had  early  marked  in 
me  all  the  signs  of  a  promising  ecclesiastic.  It 
would  have  been  easy  for  me  to  show  him  that 
there  was  far  more  selfishness,  far  more  harmful 


2  20  MY    FATHER'S    SORROWS 

pleasure,  in  my  absorption  in  study,  than  in  all 
poor  Frank's  opera-going  and  love  of  entertain- 
ment. That  he  soon  came  to  know,  alas !  but 
for  years,  I  am  sure,  when  he  would  be  gazing 
at  me  in  his  gentle  dreamy  way,  he  was  clothing 
me  now  in  the  Benedictine,  now  in  the  Franciscan 
habit,  now  tonsuring  my  head  to  the  shape  of  the 
Dominican,  now  to  the  Capuchin  corona,  now 
vesting  me  in  the  rough  cloak  and  tunic  of  the 
Passionist,  now  in  the  antiquated  cassock  of  the 
Barnabite  or  the  Oratorian,  and,  as  a  last  resort, 
even  in  the  modern  cassock  of  a  secular  priest. 
This  was  his  great  dream,  and,  the  dream  being 
for  the  most  part  passed  in  prayer,  it  became  his 
fixed  idea. 

Moved  by  my  great  love  for  him,  influenced 
perhaps  by  the  mystic  force  of  an  idea  that  was 
for  ever  welling  up  in  a  pious  soul  that  was  for 
ever  by  my  side,  I  did  go  to  the  English  College 
at  Rome  with  a  view  to  preparing  myself  for  the 
secular  priesthood.  1  was  twenty-three  years  of 
age  at  the  time,  and  his  quiet  happiness  knew  no 
bounds.  I  struggled  on  there  for  a  year,  much 
enjoying  the  studies,  it  is  true,  but  at  the  end 
of  that  time  I  came  back  home  ao^aiii,  having 
ubviously,  and  especially    in    the   opinion    of  my 


LITERARY    ENGLAND  221 

superiors,  not  a  shred  of  a  vocation  for  the  priest- 
hood. My  father  received  me  with  open  arms  ; 
in  the  simplicity  of  his  soul  he  believed  that  I 
had  not  flown  high  enough,  and  that  I  was  in- 
tended for  a  Cistercian,  a  Trappist,  or  perhaps 
even  a  Carthusian ! 

I  settled  down  again  happily  to  our  quiet  life 
at    home,    becoming   more   sedate    and    studious 
than   ever,   and   becoming  (I    think)  more  than 
ever   useful    to    him.     I    used   to  go   rather  fre- 
quently to  England.     My  grandmother  had  died 
in   1879,  leaving  the  bulk  of  her  fortune  to  her 
son.     My  father  was  now,  comparatively  speaking, 
a  rich  man,  and  he  was  ever  most  open-handed 
in  his  allowances  to  us.      I  began  to  make  friends 
in  England,  and  to  mix  with  literary  and  scientific 
men.     That   was  a  kind  of  intoxication  to  me. 
They  found  me  full  of  information  that  was  new 
to  them,  and  talked  to  me  willingly  enough.     To 
be  sure  I  thought  them  a  strange  set ;  but  if  I 
was  astounded  to  find   that  the  wisest  of  them 
did  not  know  the  difference  between  a  monk  and 
a  friar,  or  a  martyr  and  a  confessor,  or  an  amice 
and  an  amess  ;  if  not  one  of  them  could  tell  me 
the  distinction  between  in  bend,  on  a  bend,  and 
bendways  ;  if  all  of  them  thought  that  the  United 


222  MY    FATHER'S    SORROWS 

States  flag  contained  thirteen  stripes  and  not 
six  ;  ^  if  none  of  them  knew  who  was  the  lawful 
king  of  France  or  Portugal,  nor  what  was  the 
constitution  of  the  Republic  of  Andorra  ;  if  not 
one  single  one  of  them  understood  what  Univer- 
sals  were,  and  all  of  them  took  substance  to  be 
a  solid  and  form  to  be  a  shape  ;  if  nearly  all  were 
innocent  of  a  course  of  logic  and  none  could  have 
passed  an  elementary  examination  in  the  Penny 
Catechism — yet  I  was,  I  confess,  even  more 
astounded  at  my  own  abysmal  ignorance  of  all 
the  questions  that  were  agitating  this  strange  big 
modern  world,  from  which  I  had  been  so  long, 
and,  as  I  now  think,  so  happily  secluded.  I  was 
in  the  position  that  no  student  likes — I  was  out 
in  the  cold.  And  so  to  warm  myself  I  read  a 
host  of  books  which  destroy ;   writers  who  give 

'  An  odd  number  of  stripes  or  bars  in  heraldry  is  impossible, 
and  indeed  "unthinkable."  The  United  States  flag  has  six  white 
stripes  on  a  red  ground  ;  its  correct  blason  is  gules,  si.\  bars  argent. 
I  once  explained  this  theory  to  a  United  States  Consular  Officer, 
pointing  out  to  him  that  by  the  error  of  a  foreign  painter  the 
shield  over  his  official  residence  contained  t^vclvc  stripes.  "  Then, 
according  to  you,"  he  answered  with  true  Transatlantic  acumen, 
"  if  there  had  been  one  more  stripe  on  that  shield,  there  would 
have  been  six  less?"  His  reply  was  smart  and  witty,  but  he  was 
no  herald,  and  to  this  day  he  remains  obstinately  convinced  that 
the  true  flag  and  shii-Id  of  his  country  contain  Ihirlcen  stripes. 
'  Tis  an  age  in  which  people  insist  upon  trying  to  think  the  un- 
thinkable, Mr.  Walslic  would  have  said. — M.  C. 


I    NEGLECT    MY    WORK  223 

hope  of  future  building  out  of  the  old  materials 
mixed  with  new ;  writers  who  leave  standing  the 
old  buildings  but  rob  them  of  all  ornament ; 
writers  who  would  pull  down  all  buildings  and 
have  men  return  to  the  chill  fastnesses  of  the 
cave-dwellers.  And  I  confess  it,  my  soul  began 
to  take  a  secret  delight  in  these  things.  At  least 
I  could  speak  with  connaissance  de  cause  at  the 

Club  and  at  Mrs. 's  famous  Thursday 

evenings. 

At  the  end  of  1888  I  came  to  England  for 
my  father.  I  was  to  collate  five  codexes  for 
him,  four  at  the  British  Museum  and  one  at 
the  Bodleian.  Sticking  to  it  closely,  the  work 
would  have  taken  me  from  three  to  four  months. 
It  was  work  I  loved,  and  I  loved  working  at 
the  British  Museum  above  all  things. 

But  my  work  proceeded  very  slowly,  and  the 
old  delicious  savour  went  out  of  it  very  soon. 
Somehow  or  other  I  got  a  wonderful  reception 
in  London.  Somehow  or  other  I  seemed  to 
have  got  known.  Yet  they  could  not  point  me 
out  as  a  "great"  writer  or  a  "great"  poet.  (All 
the  writers  and  poets  I  met  in  those  days  were 
"great.")  I  suppose  I  was  a  kind  of  curiosity 
to  them,  the  possessor  of  a  new  unknown  tongue 


224  MY    FATHER'S    SORROWS 

in  that  Babel  of  voices.  Engagements  and  in- 
vitations came  in  upon  me  thick  and  fast.  If 
I  worked  at  the  Museum  from  ten  to  twelve, 
or  from  ten  to  one,  it  was  as  much  as  I  could 
get  done.  I  began  to  take  an  interest  in  two 
of  their  chief  concerns — different  kinds  of  wine 
and  different  kinds  of  food,  and  I  wasted  time 
and  my  father's  money  in  the  giving  of  dinners 
which  were  praised.  I  took  ever  so  naturally 
to  late  hours,  and  went  to  see  "great"  actors 
at  the  theatre  and  "  stars  "  at  the  palaces  of  song. 
And  such  leisure  as  I  could  squeeze  out  of  this 
life  at  high  pressure  I  devoted  to  reading  the 
"great"  works  of  "great"  men,  and  such  aspira- 
tions as  were  left  me  in  this  atmosphere  of  moral 
suffocation,  aimed  at  striving  after  the  "great- 
ness" acclaimed  by  the  modern  world.  Nay,  I 
deliberately  planned,  and  even  commenced,  a 
modern  realistic  novel  with  an  unsavoury  founda- 
tion, while  my  father's  solid,  wholesome,  useful 
work  lay  neglected  in  my  portmanteau. 

Small  wonder,  since  I  would  have  it  so,  that  my 
faith  made  shipwreck  in  the  tempestuous  tossing 
of  those  turbulent  waters.  If  a  cork  that  dances 
seawards  in  the  hurly-burly  of  a  foaming,  whirling 
stream    were    but    endowed    with   consciousness, 


CONSTRUCTIVE    PYRRHONISM         225 

how  delightful  its  sensations  of  varied  motion, 
how  sweet  the  security  of  its  lightness  and  im- 
perviousness,  how  intoxicating  the  rush  over  a 
roaring  cataract!  In  some  such  fashion  did  I 
dance  down  the  giddy  stream  of  the  season's 
pleasures,  until  the  waters  receded  and  some 
wayward  eddy  carried  me  up  high  and  dry  upon 
a  rocky  bed,  lost  to  life  and  every  useful  purpose. 
But  if  I  lost  the  faith  in  which  I  had  been 
nurtured,  no  man  can  say  that  it  was  by  a  pro- 
cess of  calm  reasoning.  "A  bad  life  and  a 
good  religion,"  says  Laurence  Sterne,  "are  soon 
parted,"  and  the  day  came  when  I  said  to  myself 
and  to  others,  "  I  am  no  longer  a  Catholic."  All 
that  I  can  say  in  my  defence  is  that  I  adopted  no 
known  "ism."  I  started  an  "ism"  of  my  own. 
It  has  an  old  name  and  is  called  Pyrrhonism, 
but  it  was,  I  think,  a  Pyrrhonism  of  my  own. 

I  may  call  it  constructive  Pyrrhonism  (and 
that  is  not  quite  so  paradoxical  and  topsy-turvey 
as  "constructive  Anarchism,"  which  I  have  heard 
spoken  of).  I  doubted  the  certainty  of  all 
things,  but  I  did  not  deny  the  possibility  of 
certainty.  Shall  I  be  understood  when  I  say 
that  I  professed  to  find  the  logical  position 
philosophically  intolerable,  and  the  philosophical 


2  26  iMY    FATHER'S    SORROWS 

logically  impossible?  He  who  denies,  just  as 
he  who  affirms,  ceases  to  be  a  genuine  doubter. 
I  found  myself  defending  the  real  existence  of 
phenomena  on  the  ground  that  we  cannot  prove 
with  certainty  their  non-existence.  I  declined, 
of  course,  to  accept  their  existence  as  theoreti- 
cally proved,  but  on  the  whole  I  behaved  like 
a  reasonable  being.  I  had  more  sympathy  with 
affirmation  than  with  denial,  because,  as  I  con- 
tended, so  far  as  history  went,  affirmation  was 
older  than  denial,  and  though  I  could  not  admit 
that  the  intellect  had  any  sufficient  criterion  for 
either,  affirmation,  I  was  ready  to  grant,  was 
the  superior  dream  of  the  two.  I  also  found 
myself  strenuously  defending  the  Catholic  Church 
on  this  very  ground  that  we  have  not  sufficient 
certainty  to  deny  anything.  My  defence  made 
some  impression.  If  I  had  spoken  as  a  Catholic, 
men  would  have  called  me  partial  and  a  bigot. 
Not  a  soul  of  them  would  have  listened  to  me. 
Now,  when  1  defended  truth  in  the  name  of 
doubt,  1  succeeded  in  removing  many  a  false 
impression.  It  was  here  that  my  Pyrrhonism 
became  constructive  to  some  purpose. 

A  year  passed,  and  I  wrote  and  told  my  father 
that  I  was  no  lon^^er  a  Catholic.      It  was  a  cruel 


THE    RETURN    OF   THE    PRODIGAL     227 

thing  to  do  :  my  very  Pyrrhonism  would  have 
justified  silence  while  I  was  at  a  distance  from 
him,  and  not  called  upon  to  deny  my  doubt  by 
any  Catholic  act  of  faith.  But  I  was  blinded  by 
the  whirl  of  intellectual  London,  and,  without 
knowing  it,  my  moral  fibre  had  become  relaxed 
and  weak.  He  wrote  me  a  letter — such  a  letter 
as  I  cannot  destroy,  but  please  God  no  human 
eye  shall  ever  look  upon.^  It  was  the  cry  of  a 
heart  about  to  break — the  cry  of  a  heart  suddenly 
abandoned  by  God.  The  Pyrrhonist  card-castle 
came  toppling  about  my  ears,  as  I  hastily  made 
ready  to  return  to  Assisi.  I  saw  it  even  then  ;  I 
saw  it  more  clearly  later  on  :  this  Pyrrhonism  of 
mine  was  but  a  sorry  attempt  to  justify  a  bad 
life  by  an  intellectual  process.  'Tis  the  commonest 
of  all  snares.  The  educated  sinner  has  a  need  of 
putting  an  intellectual  gloss  upon  his  sin.  I  was 
sincere  in  my  denial  of  the  faith,  but  what  availed 
sincerity  if  the  denial  had  been  brought  about  by 
a  gradual  moral  deterioration  .-* 

*  I  found  among  my  friend's  papers  a  sealed  envelope  bearing 
this  inscription  : — "  I  put  it  upon  the  conscience  and  honour  of  the 
person  finding  this  envelope  after  my  death  to  burn  it  immediately 
without  having  broken  the  seal."  I  do  not  doubt  that  the  envelope 
contained  the  letter  above  referred  to.  I  watched  the  smoke  of  it 
going  up  the  great  chimney  of  the  study  in  Assisi,  and  fear  the 
world  has  been  a  great  loser  by  its  destruction. — M.  C. 


2  28  MY    FATHERS    SORROWS 

But  let  all  that  pass,  I  hastened  home  to  undo 
the  evil  I  had  done,  and  I  found  a  pair  of  lovini; 
arms  stretched  wide  to  receive  me.  I  fell  into 
that  dear  embrace,  and  in  the  Latin  which  was 
to  him  as  the  speech  of  heaven,  I  cried  aloud  : 
Pater,  peccavi  in  caelum,  ct  cora?n  tc,  Jam  non  sum 
digmis  vocari  filius  tiuis.  But  he  murmured  in 
my  ear  with  the  sound  of  laughter  in  his  voice  : 
Adducite  vitulum  sao^inaium,  ct  occidite,  et  nian- 
diiccmitSi  ct  cpulcmtir :  qjiia  hie  filius  vicus  mor- 
tuus  crat,  ct  rcvixit ;  perierat  et  inventus  est. 

From  that  day  there  was  never  a  shadow  of 
division  between  us.  He  gave  uj)  all  thought 
that  I  was  intended  to  be  a  Reliirious,  and  I 
settled  down  again  into  the  quiet  life  beside  him. 
He  had  become  my  vivifying  principle,  the  light 
of  my  understanding,  the  life  of  my  life.  But  if 
the  life  of  my  life  be  taken  from  me,  what  awaiteth 
me  but  the  relief  of  a  speedy  death  '^ 


CHAPTER    XVII 

MY  father's    studies — OF    SOME   OF   HIS    THEORIES 

I  DO  not  propose  in  this  brief  memoir  to  say  much 
of  Mr.  Walshe's  studies.  To  each  of  his  works  I 
have  prepared,  or  am  preparing,  an  introductory- 
essay,  in  which  his  discoveries,  the  thoroughness  of 
his  methods,  his  great  patience,  his  high  purpose 
and  indomitable  perseverance,  will,  I  hope,  be 
sufficiently  manifest.  He  was  overflowing  with 
imagination  and  full  of  sentiment ;  but,  thanks 
perhaps  to  his  logical  training  and  bent,  his 
method  was  always  severely  critical.  Indeed,  the 
desire  of  proof  positive  is  a  note  almost  too  much 
accentuated  in  his  works,  and  in  the  interests  of 
art  I  could  wish  it  were  less  pronounced.  Only 
in  the  Life  of  St.  Clare  has  he  given  rein  to  his 
devout  fancy ;  he  has  put  his  real  imaginative  self 
into  the  work ;  and  the  result  is  a  little  master- 
piece. Really  he  was  a  great  artist  though  he 
would  not  see  it,  or  was  too  timid  to  use  his 
wings.      Be  all    this   as    it    may,  his  works  will 

remain  a  perfect  mine  of  fact,  while  his  treatment 

229 


230  MY    FATHER'S    STUDIES 

will  stand  out  as  a  fine  model  of  the  right  uses  of 
reason  and  imagination. 

His  views  on  the  sources  of  the  Life  of  St. 
Francis  were  common-sense  and  traditional,  and 
he  believed  that  these  views  thoroughly  stood 
the  test  of  modern  criticism.  He  did  not  regard 
the  Legenda  Triuvt  Sociorion  as  a  fragment,  or 
if  a  fragment,  he  did  not  think  that  any  more  of 
it  had  ever  been  written.  The  Speculum  Per- 
fectionis  he  did  not  regard  as  the  entire  handi- 
work of  Fra  Leone,  nor  as  having  been  written 
as  early  as  I  227.  But  these  and  kindn^d  matters 
will  be  found  fully  treated  in  the  volume  on  the 
"  Sources  "  appended  to  his  Life  of  St.  Francis. 

Although  a  traditionalist,  he  was  no  blind,  hut 
rather  a  most  discriminating,  follower  of  tradition. 
When  inexorable  f  ict  dooms  a  tradition  to  death, 
what  else  is  there  for  the  honest  man  but  to 
accept  inexorable  fict?  But  l\Ir.  Walshe  cer- 
tainly did  deprecate,  more  especially  on  the  jiart 
of  Catholics,  any  unseemly  rejoicings  round 
the  grave  of  a  defunct  tradition,  claiming  instead 
Christian  burial  and  a  little  decent  mourning  for 
many  an  old  friend  who  had  never  hurt  a  soul,  and 
had  consoled  a  countless  multitude.  He  was,  in 
his  gentle   way,   genuinely  griev(-d  at   tiie  eager- 


THE    PROPHECY    OF    ST.    MALACHY     231 

ness  of  some  of  his  co-religionists  to  kill  and 
have  done  with  the  famous  prophecy  of  St. 
Malachy  regarding  the  Popes.  Of  course  he 
bowed  to  inexorable  fact :  he  was  ready  to 
admit  that  the  prophecy  was  a  forgery  or  conceit. 
But  then  he  was  able  to  soar  into  regions  far 
above  the  modern  critical  destroyer  :  in  all  his 
reflections  and  deductions  he  never  lost  sight  of 
the  fact  that  God  was  Almighty.  With  regard 
to  these  prophecies,  though  originally  a  forgery, 
he,  with  his  devout  imagination,  believed  that 
God  had  made  them  come  true  as  a  reward  for 
the  great  faith  of  the  people  in  them,  and  to  take 
away  the  reproach  of  His  Elect  among  men.  And 
this  surely  is  a  soundly  common-sense  view. 
Indeed,  how  can  it  be  otherwise.-*  Is  it  possible 
to  believe  in  mere  coincidence  when  we  have 
"  Pastor  Peregrinus,"  for  Pius  VI.,  who  was 
chased  from  his  throne  and  died  in  exile;  "  Aquila 
Rapax,"  for  Pius  VII.,  who  was  despoiled  and 
carried  away  by  the  Napoleonic  eagle;  "Crux 
de  Cruce,"  for  Pius  IX.,  whose  heaviest  cross 
came  from  the  cross  of  Savoy ;  "  Lumen  de 
Coelo,"  for  Leo  XIII.,  who  has  most  con- 
spicuously been  a  light  to  lighten  them  that  sit 
in  darkness.     The  prophecy  for  the  next    Pope 


232  MY    FATHER'S    STUDIES 

is  "  Ignis  ardcns,"  a  burning  fire.  While  daily 
praying  that  the  light  from  heaven  might  con- 
tinue to  shine  upon  the  earth  for  many  years  to 
come,  Mr.  Walshe's  hope  was  that  the  burning 
fire  might  scorch  and  dry  up  the  ugly  liberal 
tares  which  some  enemy,  with  an  over-heavy 
hand,  had  of  late  been  sowing  in  the  Lord's 
vineyard. 

One  of  his  reasons  for  settlincf  at  Assisi  was 
that  he  might  enjoy  the  use  of  the  fine  library  of 
the  Friars  Minor  Conventuals  in  the  great  con- 
vent of  San  Francesco.  As  early  as  the  middle 
of  the  fourteenth  century  the  Friars  had  turned 
a  part  of  their  rich  store  of  codexes  into  a  public 
library  f  )r  the  use  of  students.  The  library  c<^n- 
tinued  to  exist  even  after  the  heartless  supj)res- 
sion  of  this  historical  convent  in  1866.  But  the 
convent  being  destined  for  a  college  for  the 
education  of  the  sons  of  Italian  teachers  and 
schoolmasters,  the  library  was  found  to  be  in  the 
way,  and  the  printed  books  were  packed  into 
cases  until  a  home  could  be  found  for  them. 
They  remained  in  these  cases  for  twenty-five 
years,  and  it  was  not  till  1900  that  they  were 
plac(xl  upon  siielves  in  the  handstjme  Palazzo 
Vallemanl.      And  note  furlh<r,  and  never  forget. 


THE    LIBRARY    AT   ASSISI  233 

that  the  friars  were  despoiled  of  their  property  in 
the  name  of  the  advancement  of  learning.  For 
very  shame  it  was  impossible  to  subject  the  rare 
codexes,  containing  what  in  Mr.  Walshe's  day  was 
the  only  known  codex  of  the  second  Life  of  Celano, 
to  the  same  treatment.  These  were  placed  upon 
shelves  in  a  dark  and  dusty  little  room  of  the 
municipal  palace,  without  any  of  the  appurten- 
ances of  study,  and  the  difficulty  of  consulting 
them  was  only  sweetened  by  the  unfailing 
courtesy  and  kindness  of  the  librarian,  Professor 
Leto  Alessandri  (may  his  name  live  for  ever  !).^ 
Even  now  the  printed  books  are  unprovided  with 
a  properly  referenced  catalogue,  and  the  pleasures 
of  study  in  the  Communal  Library  are  diminished 
— to  men  of  conscience,  at  least — by  the  trouble 
to  which  they  have  to  put  the  kindly  librarian 
in  supplying  their  wants.  I  cannot  pretend  that 
Mr.  Walshe  was  seriously  inconvenienced  by  his 
inability  to  consult  the  printed  books  ;  his  own 
library  contained  Franciscan  rarities  which  did 
not  exist  in  any  of  the  libraries  of  Umbria.      I 

^  M.  Paul  Sabatier  has  commented  roundly  on  this  state  ot 
things.  "  Meme  avec  la  complaisance  h.  toute  epreuve  du  con- 
servateur  M.  Alessandri  et  la  Municipality  d'Assise,  il  est  tr^s 
difficile  de  profiter  de  ces  tresors  empiles  dans  une  chambre 
sombre  sans  une  table  pour  ecrire."      Vie  de  S,  Fraft^ois,  p.  xxxviii. 


234  I^^V    FATHER'S    STUDIES 

do  but  mention  the  fact  to  show  that  the  spolia- 
tion of  the  Relis^ious  Orders  was  not  an  unmixed 
benefit  to  mankind  and  learning. 

Although  my  father  became  more  and  more  im- 
mersed in  Franciscan  studies,  he  never  narrowed 
himself  exclusively  to  this  branch  of  historical 
learning.  In  matters  of  heraldry,  palaeography, 
and  bibliography  he  was  thoroughly  up  to  date, 
and  he  kept  abreast  of  the  events  of  the  time, 
more  especially  of  the  daily  palpitating  events  of 
modern  Church  history.  He  was  never  deep  in 
science,  but  by  his  knowledge  of  logic  he  would 
often  hit  upon  a  fallacy  in  the  pet  conclusions  of 
modern  scientific  men.  Scientific  men,  he  was 
wonl  to  allege  with  ofreat  truth,  lost  one  half  of 
th(-ir  influence  for  good,  and  wasted  one  half  of 
their  energy,  for  want  of  a  proper  training  in 
logic.  And  logic,  he  would  add,  gave  the  ecclesi- 
astic one  half  of  his  superiority  in  inlluence  over 
the  scientific  man.  liis  only  quarrel  with  science 
was  that  its  votaries,  from  Galileo  downwards, 
would  not  recognise  that  it  was  confined  to  a 
mere  province,  but  would  for  ever  be  introducing 
themselves  into  provinces  with  which  they  had 
no  rc:al  concern.  A  great  man  of  science,  at  all 
events  among  the  moderns,   was,   he  would  say, 


THE    "DOCTOR    SUBTILIS"  235 

seldom  a  man  of  great  science.  Nay,  had  not 
one  of  them  even  usurped  the  word  "sermon" 
to  drive  home  his  favourite  conclusions  ?  It  is 
impossible  for  me  to  convey,  in  all  its  nice 
ramifications,  the  confusion  of  mind  he  could  see 
and  analyse  in  such  a  term  as  "  Lay  Sermons," 
when  used  by  a  scientific  man.  If  there  was  a 
fallacy  in  his  argument,  that  did  not  detract 
from  the  deft  neatness  and  completeness  of  its 
structure. 

In  philosophy  Mr.  Walshe  was,  I  will  not  say  a 
follower,  but  an  intense  admirer,  of  Duns  Scotus. 
The  very  title  "  Doctor  Subtilis,"  enjoyed  by  the 
great  scholastic,  was  the  highest  of  which  my 
father  could  conceive  where  the  human  intellect 
was  concerned ;  the  "  Angelic "  of  St.  Thomas, 
the  "Seraphic"  of  St.  Bonaventure,  seemed  to 
him  rather  to  qualify  matters  which  were  above 
the  intellect,  theology  rather  than  philosophy  ; 
the  "Irrefragable"  of  Alexander  of  Hales  re- 
ferred rather  to  a  result  than  to  a  quality  such  as 
the  subtlety  of  Duns.  But  perhaps  the  secret  of 
his  leaning  to  the  founder  of  the  Scotists  was  a 
natural  propensity  which  he  had  to  believe  in 
Universals  a  parte  rei,  or  the  real  existence  of 
Universals   outside   of  the  mind  which  reflected 


236  MY    FATHERS    STUDIES 

upon  them.  To  establish  the  real  existence  of 
Universals  seemed  to  him  the  highest  llight  of 
which  the  human  intellect  was  capable,  and  he 
realised  all  the  importance  of  the  theory.  From 
this  theory  he  would  prove,  in  the  subtlest 
fashion,  a  doctrine  most  important  to  Catholics, 
namely,  that  there  can  be  matter  without  exten- 
sion. The  appearance  of  Leo  XII  I. 's  Encyclical 
yEterni  Patris  in  1879  constituted  for  him,  loyal 
son  of  the  Church  as  he  was,  a  tacit  condemna- 
tion of  the  extreme  Realism  of  the  Scotists,  and 
he  was  never  afterwards  heard  to  advocate  his 
favourite  theory.  Init  he  was  too  well  versed  in 
scholastic  philosophy  to  suppose  that  the  exalta- 
tion of  St.  Thomas  meant  the  wholesale  con- 
demnation of  the  Qfreat  TVanciscan  doctors. 

As  a  consequence  of  his  Realism,  he  had 
developed  a  theory  which,  so  fir  as  I  know,  was 
peculiar  to  himself:  he  was  inclined  to  believe  in 
the  real,  and  not  the  merely  theoretical,  existence 
of  mathematical  lines  and  points. 

"  A  point,"  says  Euclid,  "  is  that  which  has  no 
parts,  or  which  has  no  magnitude."  But  if  it 
"  is  that  which,"  it  exists  :  therefore  that  which 
has  no  parts  or  magnitude;  has  real  existence. 

"A    line,"    says    Euclid,    " /j    length     without 


A    NEW    THEORY    OF    "FORM"        237 

breadth."  But  if  it  is,  then  it  exists  :  therefore 
length  without  breadth,  though  invisible,  has  a 
real  existence. 

"The  extremities  of  a  line  are  points  :"  there- 
fore the  terminations  of  length  without  breadth 
have  neither  parts  nor  magnitude. 

"The  extremities  of  a  superficies  are  lines:" 
therefore  (and  this  is  the  most  important  of  all, 
for  a  superficies  has  an  objective  and  visible 
existence)  a  certain  material  body,  called  a  super- 
ficies, is  bounded  by  invisible  boundaries,  which 
are  themselves  terminated  by  that  which  has  no 
parts  or  magnitude. 

Here  we  have  the  theory  in  a  nutshell.     It  is 

simply  that  every  material  substance  is  bounded, 

and   therefore    shaped    or    formed,    by    invisible 

lines    having   the    real    existence    predicated    by 

Euclid.      It  is  a  new  application  of  the  scholastic 

concept  of  "form" — form  not  being  the  shape  of 

a  thing,  but  the  invisible  power  which  gives   it 

one  shape  rather  than  another.     But  just  as  the 

scholastics   regarded   "form"  rather  as  a  power 

or  essence  interior  to   every  object,   so    in   Mr. 

Walshe's  theory  "form"  was  an  exterior  power 

(and,   though    exterior,    yet    as    invisible   as    the 

interior  "  form  "  of  the  scholastics) ;  nothing  less, 


238  MY    FATHER'S    STUDIES 

in  f.ict,  than  invisible  mathematical  lines,  acting 
upon,  compressing,  and  holding  in  their  place 
every  material  object.  I  have  no  skill  in  such 
metaphysical  matters,  and  do  but  lamely  present 
a  theory  which,  whether  true  or  false,  is  surely 
not  without  sublimity.  True  or  false,  it  out- 
does the  Subtle  Doctor  in  subtlety.  By  it  the 
invisible,  not  the  visible,  is  the  all-important 
factor  in  the  universe,  and  the  grossest  material 
object  Uikes  its  shape  from  a  force  not  seen. 
Moreover,  if  true,  it  proves  that  there  may  be 
matter  without  extension.  Nay,  by  showing  us 
that  our  material  existence  is  shaped  and  deter- 
mined by  that  which  has  no  parts  or  magnitude, 
that  there  is  magnitude  which  is  invisible,  may 
we  not  arrive  at  some  glimmerings  of  the  pro- 
foundest  truths  of  the  Athanasian  Creed,  at  a 
flint  understanding  of  the  astounding  and  in- 
comprehensible doctrine  of  the  Trinity  of  Three 
Persons  in  One  God.'*^ 

'  Of  course  the  point  plays  a  more  important  part  in  this 
system  than  the  line.  The  line,  if  invisible,  has  at  least  the 
material  cjuality  of  length.  The  [loint  determines  where  a  line 
shall  Ixj^'in  and  where  leave  off.  Therefore  that  which  has  no 
parts  or  ma^jnilude  controls  that  which  has  length.  If  invisible 
lines  having'  Icn^'lh  give  shape  to  all  visible  bodies,  points  without 
magnitude  determine  the  length  of  those  lines  ;  therefore  points 
arc  more  important  than  lines.  — P.  A'..  W. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

MY     father's     inner     LIFE 

My  present  task,  which  to  many  will  hardly  seem 
begun,  is  drawing  to  a  close.  I  come  to  the  last 
ten  years  of  my  father's  life,  about  which  much 
might  be  said  and  the  most,  but  about  which 
I  shall  say  little  and  the  least.  It  would  need 
the  pen  of  the  born  hagiographer,  humble,  holy, 
and  ascetic  as  his  subject,  to  draw  the  true 
picture  of  these  ten  years  of  a  saintly  existence. 
I  have  tried  to  sketch  the  life  of  John  William 
Walshe,  the  scholar ;  I  shrink  from  writing  the 
inner  life  of  a  venerable  servant  of  God.  And 
yet  something  must  be  said,  if  only  for  his 
honour  and  glory. 

One  night  in  May  1890 — it  was  the  feast  of 
St.  Augustine,  Apostle  of  England  ;  but,  indeed, 
the  feast  of  St.  Philip  Neri  had  already  begun, 
for  the  great  clock  of  San  Francesco  had 
already  struck  the  six  strokes  of  midnight — I 
heard  the  faintest  uncertain   tinkling    of  a    bell 

outside  my  door.      In  our  primitive  old  palazzo, 

239 


240  MY    FATHER'S    INNER    LIFE 

tlic  bedroom  bells  rancT  on  tlie  landinir  and  not 
down  below  stairs.  I\Iy  bedroom  was  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  and  the  bells  were  placed  just 
outside  my  door.  This  faint  uncertain  quivering 
tinkle,  for  all  the  world  as  if  caused  by  a  gust  of 
wind  down  the  passage,  most  assuredly  came 
from  my  father's  bell.  I  stepped  out  into  the 
corridor  with  a  candle  and  looked  up  at  the  bell. 
The  tongue  of  it  was  quivering  and  dancing  at 
a  great  rate,  but  the  tinkling  had  ceased.  My 
first  thouL^ht  was  that  a  bat  mi'dit  have  become 
entangled  in  the  wires.  I  walked  along  the  land- 
ing peering  upwards :  the  tinkling  of  the  bell 
began  again  even  more  decidedly,  and  I  could 
hear  the  wire  that  ran  along  the  passage 
quivering  and  creaking.  A  feeling  of  anxiety 
came  over  me  :  there  was  a  briirlu  li''ht  coming 
from  my  f  ither's  room,  just  as  I  had  seen  it  when 
I  was  a  tiny  boy.  I  hurried  U)  the  end  oi  the 
passage  and  gently  knocked  at  the  door.  No 
answer.  I  knocked  again  three  times,  the  third 
time  very  peremptorily.  Slill  no  answer.  I 
opened  the  door  hastily  and  entered. 

"Just   God!"    I   cried,    "and   dost  Thou   love 

Thy  servant  so  much  as  this  ?  "     My  feeling  of 

alarm  had    given   way   to   feelings  of  veneration 


A  RAPTURE  241 

and  deepest,  consuming,  awe-stricken  rever- 
ence. There  I  saw  him,  standing  at  the  end 
of  the  room,  with  arms  wide  outstretched. 
The  finger-tips  of  the  right  hand  were 
just,  by  chance,  touching  the  bell -rope.  His 
face  was  towards  me ;  the  eyes  were  upturned, 
the  lips  just  smiling,  the  whole  expression  and 
bearing  such  as  you  have  seen  many  a  time  in 
pictures  of  the  Saints,  save  that  he  was  standing 
and  not  kneeling.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
about  it ;  my  father  was  in  a  rapture,  caught  out 
of  himself  by  the  loving  arms  of  God  into 
that  seventh  heaven  of  bliss  which  His  Saints 
alone  are  privileged  to  visit  during  this  earthly 
pilgrimage.  I  went  over  to  him  and  reverently 
took  one  of  the  outstretched  hands  in  mine :  he 
neither  moved  nor  stirred  ;  the  arm  was  quite 
rigid.  I  put  my  arms  round  him  and  looked  up 
into  that  dearest  face ;  his  eyes,  though  fixed, 
were  soft  and  shone  brightly.  I  then  laid  my 
head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  sought  to  join  my 
unworthy  soul  to  his  while  he  was  so  perfectly 
conjoined  to  God.  Now  and  again  I  would 
whisper  in  his  ear,  calling  him  by  endearing 
names  that  I  had  used  in  imaginary  conversa- 
tions, but  had  never  dared  to  utter  to  his  face 

Q 


242  MY    FEATHER'S    INNER    LIFE 

because  of  the  odd  little  barrier  of  shyness  that 
there  was  between  us.  And  still  he  did  not 
move.  I  laid  my  head  back  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  I  may  have  been  in  that  position  about  three 
minutes,  when  I  heard  him  g;ive  a  great  sigh  ; 
the  Holy  Name  escaped  his  lips  ;  I  felt  the 
muscles  of  the  body  relax,  and  his  hands  were 
upon  my  head  gently  stroking  my  hair.  The 
touch  of  those  holy  hands,  new  quickened  with 
celestial  fire,  seemed  to  infuse  into  my  soul  a 
new  felt  peace  and  bliss.  I  was  too  happy  to 
raise  my  eyes  to  his,  and  that  long  embrace  was 
the  sweetest  savour  of  Paradise  that  I  had  ever 
tasted  in  this  valley  of  tears. 

When  I  did  look  up,  there  was  a  gentle  wonder 
and  perplexity  in  his  face.  "  How  came  you  here, 
Phil  ?  "  he  asked.  "  But  you've  been  crying,  boy," 
he  went  on  with  sudden  concern;  "you're  in 
trouble!     Tell  me,  what  is  it,  what's  the  matter?" 

"I  am  in  no  trouble,  father,"  I  answered.  "  I 
never  was  so  hapj')y  in  my  life.  But  I  heard  your 
bell  ringing " 

"My  bell!" 

"And  I  knocked  at  your  door  three  times,  and 
getting  no  answer,  I  came  straight  in,  thinking 
you  might  be  ill.     You  were " 


A  CONSPIRACY  243 

He  put  his  hand  over  my  mouth  involuntarily. 
"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  he  said  beseechingly. 

*' You  were  praying,  father.     You  were " 

"Stop,  stop!"  he  implored.  But  though  his 
humility  was  most  touching,  I  did  not  stop.  I 
went  on  and  told  him  all  that  I  had  seen,  and 
how  I  knew  that  he  had  been  caught  up  out  of 
himself,  after  the  manner  of  the  Saints,  into  the 
loving  embrace  of  our  dear  Lord.  The  last  thin 
remnant  of  ice  between  us  melted  away  utterly, 
thawed  by  the  flames  of  that  divine  and  mys- 
terious rapt  in  which  I  had  found  him.  I  went 
on  and  told  him  more  and  more.  I  told  him  how 
as  a  child  I  had  watched  at  his  door  and  seen  him 
scourge  himself;  how  I  had  seen  him  at  prayer, 
too  (though,  to  be  sure,  his  prayer  at  that  time 
was  far  removed  from  the  ecstatic  state),  and  how 
I  had  early  noted  all  his  devices  and  ruses  to 
mortify  himself  unseen.  Nay,  I  went  further — 
and  it  was  then  that  he  pressed  me  very 
close  to  him — I  went  further  and  asked  to 
become  a  fellow-conspirator  with  him.  I  offered 
to  assist  him  to  mortify  himself;  I  said  that 
not  a  soul  but  I  should  know  ;  that  we  would 
have  no  servants  waiting  at  meals ;  that  I 
would    eat   off  two   plates   to    ensure    the    pious 


244  ^lY    FATHER'S    INNER    LIFE 

deception,   while   he   should    dine  off   bread  and 
water. 

While  I  was  pleading  thus  earnestly,  my  eyes 
happened  to  ghuice  over  at  the  bed.  I  leapt  to 
my  feet  in  something  like  anguish.  The  mat- 
tress had  been  taken  off  and  put  underneath  the 
bed,  and  there  were  now  but  bare  boards  for  him 
to  lie  upon.  Human  compassion  got  the  better 
of  me  ;  I  forgot  my  promises  to  aid  and  abet  him 
in  his  efforts  to  mortify  himself  unseen,  and  with 
tears  in  my  voice,  and  a  filial  bitterness  born  of 
love,  I  reproached  him  for  his  cruelty  to  himself, 
h  was  but  a  passing  and  natural  feeling;  the 
next  moment  I  was  lost  in  amazement  and 
admiration  at  the  saintly  father  whom  God  had 
given  me. 

My  father  was  subject  to  ecstasies  or  rapts  all 
the  rest  of  his  life,  but  usually  at  night-time,  when 
he  had  gone  up  to  his  oratory  for  those  pro- 
longed night-watchings  with  God.  The  rapts 
were  slight  as  compared  with  such  great  ecstatics 
as  the  Blessed  TEgidius  or  St.  Michael  of  the 
Saints  ;  usually  they  lasted  but  five  or  six  minutes, 
and  seldom,  that  ever  I  saw,  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  Now  and  again,  if  our  talk  had  got 
upon    any    particularly    intimate    aspect    of   holy 


THE  STATE  OF  ECSTASY  245 

things,  such  as  the  Sacred  Heart,  the  Precious 
Blood,  the  Holy  Wounds,  or  the  Sacramental 
Life  of  Our  Lord,  he  would  suddenly  go  off 
into  a  rapture  in  the  study  where  we  sat.  He 
struggled  hard  to  prevent  these  ecstasies  coming 
down  upon  him,  having  the  humblest  dread  that 
people  should  discover  the  divine  favours  with 
which  Providence  visited  him :  sometimes  he 
could  succeed  ;  sometimes  the  force  of  this  divine 
ardour  could  in  no  way  be  repelled.  During  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life  we  had  a  chapel  and 
daily  Mass  in  the  house  ;  it  had  become  danger- 
ous for  him  to  go  into  a  church  ;  there  was  no 
saying  that  some  word  in  a  sermon,  some  phrase 
in  the  Mass,  some  verse  in  the  Divine  Office, 
might  not  superinduce  a  rapture.  He  now  be- 
came a  daily  communicant.  The  ecstasy  would 
frequently  come  upon  him  after  communion,  but 
by  that  time  the  servants  had  already  left  the 
chapel.  Until  the  last  year  of  his  life  no  one 
had  ever  seen  him  in  a  rapture  except  myself 
and  his  spiritual  director,  a  Benedictine  monk, 
who  also  said  our  morning  Mass.  In  that  last 
year  he  went  into  an  ecstasy  one  day  that  we 
were  paying  a  visit  to  St.  Clare's  Choir  at  St. 
Damian's,  and  several  of  the  Fathers  and  some 


246  MY    FATHER'S    INNER    LIFE 

peasants  saw  him.  The  same  thlnor  happened  a 
little  later  on  down  at  the  Porziuncola  in  the 
chapel  where  St.  Francis  died.  This,  I  think, 
was  his  favourite  shrine  in  all  Christendom  after 
the  Holy  Sepulchre  and  the  House  of  Loreto.  I 
ought  to  add  that  it  was  after  he  became  subject 
to  ecstasies  that  he  conceived  and  wrote  his  ex- 
quisite little  "  Life  of  St.  Clare." 

Some  day  I  may  try  to  write  the  "  Inner  Life  of 
John  William  Walshe."  For  the  present  I  would 
gladly  be  spared  saying  anything  more  about  it. 
So  greatly  do  I  reverence  the  holy  life  of  these  last 
ten  years,  that  perhaps  I  should  have  dwelt  upon 
it  almost  exclusively  if  I  had  never  known  the 
dread  corrupting  whirl  of  London  life.  I  shudder 
at  the  thought  of  laying  bare  to  the  public  gaze 
the  hidden  life  of  one  who,  in  his  last  days,  had 
so  completely  embraced  the  folly  of  the  Cross. 
Ay,  there's  the  rub — folly !  Much  of  his  life 
would  seem  mere  foolishness  to  the  world,  and  I 
confess,  and  do  not  deny  it,  that  I  shrink  from  a 
delineation  of  this  folly,  although  I  know  all  the 
while  that  it  was  a  source  of  rejoicing  among  the 
angels  who  are  in  heaven.  But  let  all  that  pass. 
My  present  concern  is  to  m.ike  known  to  the 
world   an   unknown   scholar   by  giving  some  faint 


UNDER  FILIAL  DIRECTION  247 

outline  of  his  life  :  some  day  I  may  try  to  tell  more 
intimately  the  life  of  a  nineteenth-century  Saint. 

From  the  day  that  I  surprised  my  father  in  a 
rapture  I  did  aid  and  abet  him  in  his  mortifica- 
tions, and  his  life  became  doubly  austere.  The 
relations  between  us  were  at  length  of  the  most 
familiarly  affectionate  nature.  But  I  abused  the 
hold  I  had  over  him,  and  there  were  days  when, 
noticing  with  a  pang  at  my  heart  that  he  was 
more  than  usually  worn  with  fasting  and  watch- 
ing, I  would  sternly  command  him,  just  as  if  I 
had  been  his  spiritual  director,  to  dip  his  bread 
in  the  broth,  or  even  to  eat  an  ounce  or  two  of 
meat.  When  in  his  gentle  waydie  tried  to  refuse 
obedience  to  my  commands,  I  would  tyrannically 
threaten  to  tell  the  world  that  I  knew  he  lived  on 
bread  and  water  and  slept  upon  boards.  In  this 
way  I  did  sometimes  succeed  in  mitigating  a  little 
the  severities  of  his  life,  but  whether  to  the  good 
of  his  soul.  Heaven  alone  knows.  There  are,  and 
Heaven  knows  that  too,  only  too  many  natural 
obstacles  to  mortification  in  these  days.  I  may 
have  been  wrong  in  resorting  to  the  artificial 
check  that  was  so  often  found  necessary  in  a 
fervent  past.  The  increase  in  the  austerities  of 
my  father's  life  only  served  to  increase  the  sweet- 


248  MY    FATHER'S    INNER    LIFE 

ness  of  his  disposition  and  his  love  of  all  man- 
kind. Pcrtransiit  beiicfacicndo :  he  went  through 
the  world  doing  good,  and  relieving  suffering, 
upon  the  slightest  hint,  without  inquiry.  To 
Christ's  favoured,  the  poor,  he  ever  had  a  most 
tender  devotion.  He  especially  loved  to  help  a 
family  that  had  come  down  in  the  world  ;  such 
families,  as  a  rule,  had  some  pride,  and  did  not 
blazon  their  benefactor's  kindness  to  the  world. 
There  is  many  a  pensioner  of  his  scattered  up 
and  down  fair  Umbria.  lie  was,  moreover,  a 
great  benefactor  to  monasteries  and  convents, 
not  only  in  keeping  starvation  from  their  doors, 
but  also  in  helping  them  to  re-form  their  libraries 
after  the  law  of  spoliation.  One  of  his  dearest 
desires  was  to  buy  back  the  great  Convent  of  San 
Francesco  at  Assisi  and  restore  it  to  the  Order. 
This  he  could  have  done  for  ^20,000,  l)Ut  that 
he  did  not  consider  himself  entitled  to  leave  so 
large  a  sum  away  from  me. 

Mr.  Walshe  had  many  pious  practices  of  his 
own  which  all  belong  to  his  inner  life.  I  have 
already  mentioned  that,  as  a  I'Vanciscan  Ter- 
tiary, he  daily  said  the  Office  of  the  Church, 
or  rather  of  the  Order.  In  addition  to  this  he 
read,    on    alternate    Sundays,    the    whole    Psalter 


PIOUS  PRACTICES  249 

or  the  Medulla  PsalniodicB  Sacrcc  of  the 
Abbot  Blosius ;  every  Wednesday  he  said  the 
Office  of  the  Dead  ;  every  Saturday  the  Office 
of  Our  Lady  ;  every  Thursday  an  adaptation  of 
the  Office  of  Corpus  Christi  in  honour  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament ;  every  Monday  seven  of 
the  principal  litanies,  always  including  the  Lit- 
any of  the  Saints ;  every  Tuesday  the  beloved 
Blosius'  EndologicE  ad  Jestim;  and  every  Friday 
he  made  the  Stations  of  the  Cross,  either  in 
church  at  some  unfrequented  hour,  or  in  the 
chapel,  or  before  a  crucifix  specially  indulgenced 
for  that  purpose  and  in  the  gift  of  Cardinal  Mertel. 
He  never  let  a  day  pass  without  saying  the  whole 
of  the  Rosary.  He  had,  moreover,  a  special 
Litany  of  the  Saints  of  his  own,  in  which  he 
delighted  to  do  honour  to  the  more  recent  Saints, 
such  as  St.  Leonard  of  Port  Maurice,  St.  Paul 
of  the  Cross,  St.  Alphonsus,  St.  Benedict  Joseph 
Labre  (a  particular  favourite  with  him),  the 
Blessed  Clement  Hofbauer,  the  Blessed  Leo- 
poldo  da  Gaiche,  the  English  Martyrs,  the  Ven. 
Anna  Maria  Taigi,  the  Ven.  Pallotti,  the  Ven. 
Jean  Baptiste  Vianney,  Cur6  of  Ars,  and  so 
forth.  He  had,  in  fact,  instinctively,  the  greatest 
devotion  to  all  the  Saints  and  Blessed  who  had 


250  MY    FATHER'S    INNER    LIFE 

lived  more  recently  upon  earth,  seeini^  in  their 
formal  elevation  to  the  altars  the  most  signal 
proof  of  the  Church's  claim  to  be  considered 
"  Holy."  Here  I  may  mention  that  he  had 
several  times,  when  at  Rome,  seen  Father  Ber- 
nard ine  of  the  Incarnation,  perhaps  the  greatest 
ecstatic  of  modern  times,  and  had  often  been 
to  confession  to  him.  After  the  holy  Friar's 
death,  my  father  declared  that  his  beatification 
would  only  be  a  question  of  the  time  which 
the  strict  discipline  of  the  modern  Church  re- 
quires should  elapse  ere  a  servant  of  God  may 
be  publicly  venerated  by  the  faithful.  Father 
Bernardine  came  in  for  no  mean  share  of  infor- 
mal honours,  and  his  canonisation,  outstripping 
time,  was  proclaimed  by  the  most  infallible  baro- 
meter of  sanctity  in  this  world,  the  voice  of 
Christ's    poor    in     Rome 


Cetera  desiderantur.' 

'  I  regret  to  say  that  my  friend  has  put  his  pen  tlirough  the 
remainder  of  this  chapter,  and  I  am  bound  to  respect  bis  wishes. 
May  I  be  allowed  to  add  a  word  of  my  own  about  Father  Ber- 
nardine? The  modern  man  of  the  world  says  that  Saints  no 
longer  exist  because  lie  has  seen  none,  nay,  heard  of  none.  Is  he 
([uite  sure  that  he  would  know  a  Saint  if  he  did  sec  one?  Docs 
he  move  among  the  people  who  would  be  likely  to  hear  of  Saints  ? 


BERNARDINO  DELL'  INCARNAZIONE   251 

And  does  he  know  that  he  has  to  deal  with  a  quality  which  by  its 
nature  seeks  to  hide  itself,  and  most  frequently  succeeds  in  the 
endeavour  ?  Of  the  myriad  tourists  to  Rome,  of  all  the  candid 
readers  of  this  memoir,  I  wonder  how  many  there  are  who  have 
so  much  as  heard  of  Padre  Bernardino  dell'  Incarnazione?  My 
friend  Philip  Walshe  refers  to  him  as  if  all  the  world  must  know 
him  ;  I  know  the  world  better  than  my  friend,  for  all  his  worldli- 
ness.  Padre  Bernardino  was  born  at  Terracina  on  the  ist  May 
1819;  his  name  in  the  world  was  Filippo  Vicario.  He  entered 
the  Order  of  the  "  Crutched  Friars"  in  1835  and  became  priest  in 
1842.  The  greater  part  of  his  life  was  spent  in  the  convent  of  San 
Crisogono  at  Rome,  the  headquarters  of  the  Order.  He  was  the 
apostle,  the  confessor,  the  preacher,  the  father,  the  friend  of  Rome's 
dwellers  in  the  slums  ;  that  was  his  public  life.  In  his  private  life 
he  was  an  ecstatic.  I  have  myself  spoken  to  several  credible  wit- 
nesses who  have  seen  him  in  the  state  of  ecstasy,  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  rapt  or  rapture  (my  friend  has  incorrectly  used  the  two 
terms  as  if  they  were  synonymous).  In  his  feeble  old  age  he 
could  only  creep  along  the  cloisters  by  the  help  of  the  wall ;  his 
youth  would  suddenly  be  renewed  like  the  eagle  when  the  rapture 
came  down  upon  him.  Padre  Bernardino  died  so  recently  as  the 
12th  September  1893,  and  his  death  was  the  occasion  of  a  great 
popular  outburst  of  devotion.  The  poor  broke  down  his  confes- 
sional, from  which  they  had  so  often  been  sent  away  comforted 
and  refreshed,  and  tried  to  pull  it  into  little  bits  for  relics  ;  they 
invoked  his  intercession  ;  they  lighted  candles  before  his  picture. 
(Fortunately  some  enterprising  modern  has  taken  a  snapshot  of 
him  while  in  a  rapture.)  But  the  Holy  Office  intervened,  and  all 
these  excesses  have  died  away.  Much  material  for  his  Life  has  been 
accumulated,  but  the  Life  has  not  yet  been  published,  and  all  the 
printed  matter  I  ever  saw  relating  to  so  great  a  servant  of  God 
consists  of  a  couple  of  funeral  sermons.—  M.  C. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

MY    father's    death    AND    BURIAL 

I  THINK  my  father  died  of  the  love  of  God.  He 
so  loved  God  that  he  could  not  live  without 
Him;  the  Sumimini  Bontwi  simply  drew  the 
spirit  out  of  his  body.  The  wings  of  his  soul 
were  ever  ready  spread  for  a  flight  into  the 
celestial  realms  :  he  took  his  flight  quite  natur- 
ally into  what  had  become,  to  him,  the  natural 
element.  Certainly  the  doctor  could  give  his 
last  brief  illness  no  name,  and  spoke  vaguely 
of  the  heart.  He  was  right  enough,  it  was 
the  heart,  and  the  ailment  is  called  nostalgia, 
and  the  home  that  he  lay  pining  for  was  heaven. 
To  be  sure  he  was  physically  very  weak.  I  knew 
the  secret  of  that  well  enough  ;  his  mortifications 
and  austerities  had  latterly  told  severely  upon  a 
wasted  frame. 

On  the  eve  of  the  feast  of  SS.  Peter  and  Paul, 
the  2.Sth  June  1900,  but  again  it  was  past 
midnight,  his  bell  over  my  door  rang  out  dis- 
tinctly.      There    was    no    quivering   or    tinkling 


A  CALL  BY  NIGHT  253 

this  time,  but  a  distinct  pull,  a  jerk,  and  yet,  I 
know  not  why,  there  was  something  unnatural 
in  the  sound.  For  one  thing,  my  father  had 
never  once  been  known  to  ring  his  bell  in  the 
night-time.  I  was  in  bed  at  the  time,  but  I 
hurried,  just  as  I  was,  with  bare  feet,  along  the 
marble  corridor :  the  light  which  I  knew  so 
well  shone  bright  under  his  bedroom  door.  I 
did  not  knock,  but  entered  abruptly.  He  was 
kneeling  in  his  night-dress  by  the  bed,  kneeling 
upon  the  end  of  the  mattress  which  had  been 
half  pulled  on  to  the  floor  :  this  time  he  was  in 
no  rapture,  but  in  a  faint.  I  realised  at  once 
what  had  happened  ;  in  trying  to  lift  the  heavy 
mattress  off  the  bed  so  that  he  might  arrive 
at  his  nightly  couch  of  boards,  his  strength 
had  failed  him  and  he  had  fainted.  He  was 
far  away  enough  from  the  bell,  and  most  as- 
suredly his  hand  had  been  nowhere  near  it.  Be 
that  as  it  may.  I  lifted  the  slender  motionless 
body  into  a  chair,  hastily  rearranged  the  bed 
and  put  him  in  it ;  and  then  I  flew  downstairs 
with  my  bare  feet  to  the  dining-room  and  mixed 
a  little  weak  brandy  and  water.  I  poured  it 
down  his  throat,  and  the  dose  immediately  re- 
vived him.      He  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  at 


254  ^fY    FATHER'S    DEATH 

me  placidly  for  a  long  while ;  the  eyes  were 
still  as  hazel  briijht,  still  as  bii^  with  wonder, 
as  clear  with  innocence,  as  childlike,  as  in  Sir 
William  Boxall's  portrait ;  the  thick  auburn  hair 
had  turned  to  a  soft  silky  grey,  the  face  was 
as  white  as  Castellina  alabaster.  Never  had 
I  seen  him  so  beautiful.  There  was  no  look 
of  death  upon  the  face,  but  a  look  of  departure, 
of  departure  from  the  life  which,  through  death, 
leads  to  the  life  without  end  ;  he  was  half  an 
angel  already  ;  the  cherub's  wings  were  already 
bursting  through  the  chrysalis  of  the  human 
body.      He  stirred  and  took  my  hand  in  his. 

"How  came  you  here,  Phil,'^"  he  asked,  just 
as  he  had  asked  on  that  night  when  I  had  sur- 
prised him  in  a  rapture.  "What  is  the  matter? 
Are  you  in  trouble  ?  " 

"  I'm  in  no  trouble,  father,"  I  answered.  "  lUit 
I  heard  your  bell  ring." 

"My  bell!" 

"  I  feared  you  might  be  ill.  I  came  into  the 
room  and  found  you  kneeling  by  the  bedside. 
You  had  fainted.  I  lifted  you  into  bed  and 
fetched  you  some  brandy  and   water." 

He  pressed  my  hand  affectionately.  "Dear 
father,"  I  said,  "you   arc   ill?" 


A  LOVING  DUEL  255 

"Nay,  lad,"  he  answered  gently,  "I'm  not  ill. 
I  am  well  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  well."  He  mused 
a  long  while  again.  "  Phil,"  he  went  on  pre- 
sently, "my  transitus  is  nigh  at  hand.  I  shall 
never  again  see  the  Feast  of  St.  Francis,  nor 
the  Feast  of  Santa  Chiara,  not  even  the  Octave 
of  this  Feast  of  Blessed  Peter.  Next  Monday 
is  the  Visitation  of  Our  Lady,  and  I  think  that 
I  too  shall  have  a  visitor  on  that  day.  By  the 
compassion  which  moved  our  Heavenly  Mother 
to  visit  her  cousin  St.  Elizabeth,  may  she  too 
accompany  my  visitor.     Pray  for  me,  Pippo  boy  !  " 

I  kissed  his  hand  ;  he  had  not  the  strength 
to  prevent  me,  but  gently  murmured  his  dis- 
approval. 

"  There  is  but  one  favour  I  would  ask  of 
you,"  he  went  on.  "  Forgive  me,  forgive  me 
all  my  shortcomings  towards  you.  Say  after 
me,  '  Father,  I  forgive  you  all  the  wrong  you 
ever  did  me ;  I  forgive  your  selfishness ;  I  for- 
give your  misunderstanding  of  me." 

"  Father ! "  I  cried  choking,  "  I  bless  you  !  May 
God  for  ever  bless  you !  " 

"  Nay,  lad,"  he  answered  with  gentle  im- 
patience, "  you  do  not  say  it  aright.  Say, 
*  Father,  you  have  never  really  been  a  father  to 


256  MY    FATHER'S    DEATH 

me,  but  I  forgive  you  ;  father,  you  have  mis- 
managed me,  but  I  forgive  you ;  father,  when 
I  was  a  boy  you  neglected  me,  but  I  forgive 
you ;  father,  you  have  been  the  cause  of  all 
my  sins,  yet  I  forgive  you,  I  forgive  you,  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart ! '  Say  all  that,  Phil,  I 
beseech  you ! " 

"  Dear  father ! "  I  cried  again,  as  well  as  I 
was  able,  "I  bless  you!  I  bless  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart !  May  God  for  ever  bless 
you  !  May  our  dear  Lady  and  all  Saints  and 
Angels  bless  you!  May  our  holy  father  St. 
Francis  give  you  the  seraphic  benediction  now 
and  in  the  hour  of  your  death  !  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Phil,  forgive  me  !  " 

"  Dear  Dad,  God  bless  you,  God  bless  you !  " 

And  in  this  loving  duel  we  continued  about 
the  space  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  as  often 
as  he  said  "  Forgive  me,"  I  answered  "  May  God 
bless  you  "  and  I  was  as  powerless  to  say 
"  I  forgive  you,"  as  was  Frate  Leone  to  speak 
evil  of  Frate  Francesco,  even  when  commanded 
to  do  so  under  holy  obedience. 

Presently  he  dozed  a  little  and  his  mind 
wantlcred.  1  think  he  must  have  been  back 
again     in    the    apple-tree   cradle    or   the    Iloole 


THE    PSALMS    FROM    COMPLINE      257 

class-room,  or  the  "laura"  on  the  sandhills,  for 
once  I  heard  snatches  of  the  Psalms  in  English 
fall  from  his  lips,  and  more  than  once  the  pious 
ejaculations  which  had  sustained  him  in  the 
martyrdom  of  his  childhood  and  boyhood. 

He  awoke  suddenly  and  looked  at  me  with, 
as  I  thought,  a  tenderer  love  than  ever  in  his 
eyes.  "  Pippo,  Pippo,  boy,"  he  said,  "what  are 
you  doing  here  ?  Why  aren't  you  in  bed  .'*  Go 
to  bed  !     Go  to  bed  !  " 

"  Not  until  you  are  asleep,  Dad,"  I  answered. 
"  How  are  you  feeling?  " 

"Well,  well,  well!" 

"Shall  I  read  to  you."^"   I  asked. 

"Do  so!"  he  replied  gratefully  and  eagerly. 
"  Or  better  still,  if  you  will, — put  out  the  light, 
come  close  to  me,  and  say  me  a  psalm  or  two." 

I  did  as  I  was  bid,  and  leaning  over  the  bed 
beside  him  and  holding  both  his  hands,  I  began 
the  Psalms  from  Compline,  for  I  was  sure  of 
knowing  them  by  heart :  Cum  mvocarem  ex- 
audivit  me  Deus  justitice  mece :  in  tribulaiiojie 
dilatasti  mihi. 

Before   I    could   go  on  he  had  taken  up  the 

R 


258  MY    FATHER'S    DEATH 

second    \'erse :    Miserere    mei :    et    cxaudi   ora- 
tionein  meain. 

And  so  we  went  through  all  the  four  Psalms 
of  Compline  together,  and  I  vow  that  I  had 
never  before  drawn  so  much  sweetness  and 
consolation  from  a  religious  exercise.  When 
we  had  done  with  the  psalms,  he  went  on 
naturally  with  the  rest  of  the  Office  and  said 
the  hymn,  Te  liici's  ante  ter minion,  and  the 
chapter.  Tic  autcm  in  iiobis  es  Domine,  et 
7to7ncn  sanctum  tiium  invocatiim  est  super  nos : 
ne  derelinquas  nos,  D amine  Dens  N aster}  But 
when  we  began  the  Vcrsicles  and  Responses, 
"  hi  7)ianus  tuas''  he  could  go  no  further,  but 
kept  repeating  with  every  accent  of  loving  desire, 
" /?/  manus  tuas,  D amine,  commenda  spirit um 
??ieum  .  .  .  Rcdcmisti  me,  Donmie  Deus  veritatis 
.  .  .  Gloria  Patri  et  Filio  ct  Spiritui  Sancto 
.  .  .  In  mafius  tuas  Domine  commenda  spirifum 
vicum.  .  .  .  In  manus  tuas  .  .  .  in  manus  tuas 
.  .  .  in  manus  .  .  .  in  mamis "...  until  there 
came  down  upon  him,  not  ecstasy  or  rapture, 
but  gentle,  sweet,  refreshing  sleep.      I  lay  down 

'  Jeremiah  xiv.  9. 


THE  OFFICE  OF  SS.  PETER  AND  PAUL     259 

on  the  bed  beside  him  and  myself  slept  most 
peacefully,  nor  did  either  of  us  awake  until 
San  Francesco  struck  one  after  sunrise,  and  that 
means  seven  in  the  morning. 

It  was  the  feast  of  SS.  Peter  and  Paul,  as  I 
have  said,  and  he  wished  to  rise  and  go  to 
Mass.  Never,  now  for  more  than  thirty  years, 
had  he  missed  Mass  on  a  Sunday  or  holy  day, 
seldom,  indeed,  on  a  week  day.  I  forbade  it 
resolutely  and  sent  for  the  doctor,  though  that, 
to  be  sure,  was  a  mere  form.  He  lay  all  day 
propped  up  in  bed  tranquil  and  happy.  With 
his  help  I  managed  to  say  with  him  the  Office 
of  the  Feast  in  alternate  verses.  This  caused 
him  the  greatest  content.  "  Why  have  we 
never  said  Office  together  before,  Phil  ? "  he 
asked.  Why  indeed  ?  Is  it  not  passing  strange 
that  there  should  always  be  a  certain  undefin- 
able  shyness  between  relatives  about  things 
spiritual  ? 

I  had  a  bed  made  up  in  his  room,  and  never 
left  him  for  an  instant,  save  for  useless  con- 
ferences with   the   doctor.     On   the   mornino-   of 

o 

the   30th,   having  first   made    his    confession,    he 


2  6o  MY    FATHER'S    DEATH 

received  the  Blessed  Sacrament  with  every  mani- 
festation of  fervour,  joy,  and  gratitude,  and 
remained  a  long  while  absorbed  out  of  himself 
in  that  paradise  of  interior  delights  in  which 
his  soul  had  so  often  kept  holiday.  Again  we 
said  the  Office  of  the  day  together,  the  Office 
of  the  Commemoration  of  St.  Paul.  It  took 
us  some  hours :  he  paused  often  and  long  as 
if  drinking  in  the  very  marrow  of  those  glorious 
psalms  and  noble  antiphons.  When  we  came 
to  the  Chapter  at  Lauds,  Bofttwi  certame7t  cer- 
tavi :  cur  sum  cofisummavi,  fideni  servavi^  he  lay 
back  a  lono-  while  in  meditation  and  beoran  to 
reason  with  himself,  sometimes  aloud,  "  Fidem 
serziavi,  yes,  yes,  I  have  kept  the  faith,  but 
bonum  certamcn  certavi?  Ah,  God  foro-ive  me 
all  my  sins  !  "  I  roused  him  at  length  by  con- 
tinuing with  the  hymn,  Exultet  Orbis  gaudiis. 
I  had  asked  the  doctor  in  the  morning  whether 
Extreme  Unction  should  be  administered,  but 
he  had  shrugged  his  shoulders,  being  ignorant 
of  the  symptoms  of  paradisaical  nostalgia.  In 
the  afternoon  my  father  himself  settled  the  point. 
"  Phil,"  he  said,   "  1  expect  a  visitor  on  Monday 


EXTREME    UNCTION  261 

as  I  told  you.  I  must  be  prepared  to  receive 
him  or  repel  him  whichever  may  be  God's  will. 
Tell  Don  Feliciano  I  would  wish  to  receive 
Extreme  Unction  to-morrow  morning." 

In  the  morning  he  again  confessed  himself  to 
his  spiritual  director,  and  again  received  the 
Lord  into  his  bosom  in  a  most  familiar  entertain- 
ment. At  ten  o'clock  old  Don  Feliciano,  the  parish 
priest,  arrived,  bearing  the  holy  oils  and  accom- 
panied by  a  serving  boy  in  cotta  and  cassock. 

"  W.  Pax  huic  domui"  said  the  old  priest,  in 
the  words  of  the  rite,  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"  ^.  Et  ojnnibus  habitantibus  in  ea,''  answered 
my  father. 

My  father  followed  the  beautiful  opening 
prayers  with  every  sign  of  attentive  devotion, 
now  and  again  sighing  with  deep  contentment, 
as,  for  instance,  at  the  words,  adsint  Angeli 
pads.  Then  Don  Feliciano  anointed  him  with 
the  holy  oils  on  the  eyes,  the  ears,  the  nostrils, 
the  mouth,  the  hands,  and  the  feet,  accom- 
panying each  anointment  with  a  prayer,  and 
absorbing  the  oil  with  a  piece  of  cotton-wool. 
Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said,  "  Is  he  too  ill? 


262  MY    FATHER'S    DEATH 

Can  he  bear  it  ?  May  I  ? "  But  I  knew  not 
what  he  meant.  My  father  knew  well  enough, 
and  answered  for  me.  "  Nay,  I  am  well  .  .  . 
well  .  .  .  well,"  he  said.  And  so  he  was 
anointed  also  on  the  loins.^  Then  we  all  said 
the  Penitential  Psalms  together,  and  the  Litany 
of  the  Saints.  And  afterwards,  as  if  refreshed 
by  the  Holy  Sacrament,  he  passed  the  rest 
of  the  day  in  an  extraordinary  peace  and  tran- 
quillity. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  2nd  July  he 
called  me  to  his  bedside  and  told  me  that  his 
visitor  would  come  in  the  evening.  For  the 
first  time  he  talked  to  me  of  myself,  of  my 
future,  my  prospects,  my  inheritance,  and  he 
also  gave  me  some  very  practical  directions 
about  his  MSS.  Then  he  made  a  long  general 
confession,  in  which,  I  dare  avouch,  there  was 
no  mention  of  mortal  sin,  and  for  the  last  time 
upon  earth  tasted  of  the  heavenly  banquet.  He 
was    visibly   weaker.      I    read   the  Office  of  the 

'  The  rubric  provides  that  this  part  of  the  rite  shall  be  omitted 
(for  the  Church  is  nothing  if  not  practical)  where  it  might  be  a 
source  of  danger  to  the  patient.  And  ran  it,  I  wonder,  be  neces- 
sary to  add  that  it  applies  to  men  only,  and  not  to  women  ? 


THE    PRAYERS    FOR    THE    DYING     263 

Visitation  to  him,  but  he  took  next  to  no  part 
in  it,  save  to  utter  a  world  of  sighs.  At  one 
o'clock  a  telegram  arrived  from  the  Holy  Father 
giving  him  the  Benediction  in  articulo  mortis. 
The  blessing  was  a  source  of  great  joy  to  him, 
and  he  kept  repeating  as  if  it  were  an  article 
of  faith  (which  indeed  it  is)  :  "  He  is  God's 
Vicegerent,  he  is  God's  Vicegerent  upon  earth." 
At  four  o'clock  he  asked  that  the  prayers  for 
the  dying  might  be  said.  A  dear  Franciscan 
friend  from  the  Porziuncola  had  come  up;  another 
dear  friend  from  St.  Damian's  ;  there  were  several 
Fathers  from  San  Francesco  present ;  and  two 
Capuchins  from  the  close-lying  Domus  Orationis. 
Altogether  about  ten  ecclesiastics  took  part  in 
the  touching  and  beautiful  ceremony.  I  would 
that  they  could  have  checked  their  sobs,  but 
Heaven  gave  me  strength  to  maintain  my  com- 
posure. When  the  prayers  were  over  he  asked 
to  be  left  alone  with  me,  and  after  a  while  begged 
me  to  read  the  Passion  according  to  St.  John, 
but  from  cap.  xiii.  Ante  diem  festtim  Paschae, 
which,  you  may  remember,  was  the  Gospel  that 
St.  Francis  asked  might  be  read  to  him  on  his 


264  MY    FATHEK'S    DEATH 

bed  of  death.  After  that  he  had  a  slight  shivering 
fit,  and  I  soothed  him  as  well  as  I  could.  It  was 
obvious  now,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  was  sinking 
rapidly.  About  seven  in  the  evening,  his  mind 
evidently  still  full  of  the  death  of  St.  P'rancis, 
he  began  the  recitation  of  the  141st  Psalm, ^ 
P'oce  7iiea  ad  Douijtum  clamavi ;  and  when  he 
reached  the  last  verse,  Educ  de  acstodia  aniniam 
meaui  ad  conjitendiun  nomini  tuo,  he  sat  upright 
in  bed,  without  any  effort,  as  if  his  spirit  were 
poising  for  its  last  llight.  I  put  my  arms  round 
him,  though  he  needed  no  support,  and  his  own 
arms  went  out  as  if  to  embrace  some  dearly 
loved  object  just  before  him.  "  Ave  dulcis  Jesu  ! " 
he  said  softly  ;  '' avc !  .  .  .  ave !  Jcsu  carissime, 
Jesu  mellitissimc,  fesn  dilectissime,  ave!  .  .  . 
ave  !  O  Donime  7ni\  adoro  /e,  glorifico  tc !  Ave, 
ave  dulcis  Jesu  .  .  .  ave !  .  .  .  ave ! "  After 
he  had  breathed  this  gentle  salutation — and 
this  was  most  strange — his  arms,  which  had 
been  stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  opened 
wide   and   stiffened.      At    the    moment   of   dying 

'   142nd  in  the  Autlioriscd  Version.     St.  Francis  died  as  he  was 
saying  the  last  verse  of  this  Psalm. 


"E    LO    SPIRITO    SANTO!"  265 

he  had  fallen  into  a  rapture,  and  in  that  rapture 
his  soul  passed  away,  drawn  up  by  the  loving 
arms  of  God  into  His  sweet  everlasting  embrace. 
We  dressed  his  body  in  the  Franciscan  habit, 
which,  as  a  Tertiary,  it  was  his  right  to  wear, 
though  he  never  wore  it  in  life.  Don  Feliciano 
placed  a  wooden  crucifix  in  his  hands,  but  erect, 
with  Our  Lord  looking  straight  down  upon  His 
smiling  servitor.  The  funeral  took  place  upon 
the  afternoon  of  the  4th  July.  It  was,  by  his 
wish,  of  the  simplest  character.  The  Brothers 
of  the  Archconfraternity  of  the  Stigmata  managed 
every  detail  for  me.  May  God  bless  them  !  A 
large  concourse  of  people  had  assembled  outside 
the  house.  Just  as  the  procession  was  about  to 
move  off,  one  of  our  white  pigeons,  which  had 
been  whirling  overhead,  flew  down  towards  the 
coffin  and  then  up  again,  and  then  down  till  it 
almost  touched  the  hearse,  and  then  up  again, 
no  one  saw  whither.  The  Umbrians  are  an 
imaginative  people  ;  moreover,  they  have  in 
their  midst  some  of  the  noblest  examples  of 
Christian  art.  "  E  lo  Spirito  Santo ! "  said  a 
voice,  awe-struck,  and  the  word   quickly   spread 


266  MY    FATHER'S    DEATH 

along  the  crowd.  "  Did  you  see  that  dove  ? 
'Tvvas  the  Holy  Ghost !  I  always  told  you  he 
was  a  saint !  " 

My  father  lies  buried  in  the  little  Campo 
Santo  at  Assisi,  within  sight  of  the  tomb  of  his 
beloved  Saint,  He  is,  I  believe,  the  only 
Englishman  buried  there,  but  when  it  pleases 
God,  I  am  ready  to  lie  down  and  sleep  beside 
him.  What  else  have  I  to  do  now  that  he  is 
no  more  .'*  He  was  the  life  of  my  life  upon 
earth,  my  living  pledge  of  the  life  to  come,  my 
soul's  desire,  my  heart's  delight,  my  refuge  and 
my  comfort,  my  rock  and  my  sure  haven,  my 
peace  and  my  great  content,  and  I  would  fain 
have  done  with  this  life  and  be  conjoined  to 
him  for  ever  in   Paradise. 


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